


The Devil's Hangin' 'Round My Doorstep

by 94BottlesOfSnapple



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Arson, Bisexual Foggy Nelson, Bisexual Karen Page, Bisexual Matt Murdock, Canon Typical Slurs/Inflammatory Language by Stick, Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Humor, Identity Porn, M/M, Season/Series 01, Secret Identity, Seriously just so much arson, idiot plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2019-08-06 03:31:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 62,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16380566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/94BottlesOfSnapple/pseuds/94BottlesOfSnapple
Summary: There’s a lot of things Matt Murdock doesn’t allow himself. His best friend is one of them. But put on a mask and suddenly everything seems so freely available, Foggy included. On the other side of the coin, Foggy’s still trying to stifle his big bisexual crush on his best friend and has no idea what to think of the vigilante who’s suddenly and inexplicably taken an interest in him.





	1. Call It a Freudian Slip

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, here it comes, the Identity Shenanigans AU! It's hopefully going to be both hilarious and heartbreaking. Right now it's got a T rating, but that might change depending on, you know. Stuff. It's never gonna reach E levels, but let me know if you think I set my "tasteful fade to black" cuts late enough that the fic deserves an M, ok?

It was just a normal night, really. No different than any other. Foggy Nelson, walking home from the tiny but beloved offices of Nelson and Murdock, whistling as he went. The streets were quiet but not deserted, and there was Chinese takeout waiting for him in his fridge.

Except, just as Foggy was passing the mouth of an alleyway, there was a loud thud and a cry of pain. He took another step, past the alley. Then another. Then…

“Dammit,” Foggy hissed to himself, tightening his grip on the strap of his shoulder bag.

If it came to it, he could tug off the bag and fling it at whoever was attacking people in alleyways, he contented himself. His junky old laptop was probably heavy enough to concuss a mugger. Probably.

Ok, yeah, he was going to get himself killed. But whatever.

The further Foggy stepped into the alley, the more his eyes adjusted to the dark of it. A dumpster, a few loose bags of trash, and then—

There. A guy sagged against the alley wall. His face was covered in blood and he wasn’t moving.

“Oh, shit, are you ok, man?” Foggy asked, hurrying over, pressing his fingers to the guy’s pulse point, and praying he wasn’t dead.

And, well.

You know.

No good deed goes unpunished and all that.

Because suddenly there was a bruisingly-tight grip on his wrist, and before Foggy could quite figure out what had happened, the guy he’d been trying to help was standing and tugging Foggy back against him with an arm hooked around his throat.

 _Cool_ , Foggy thought with a slightly hysterical flavor of his usual dry sarcasm. _This is obviously the ideal way to go_.

“Back off or I snap his neck,” the injured guy growled thickly at the shadows.

As far as Foggy could see, there was no one there. But then again, it wasn’t likely the guy had punched his own face into the mess it currently was, so… Maybe there _was_ someone there. It was pretty clear that the guy threatening to murder Foggy in cold blood wasn’t exactly a good dude, but Foggy wasn’t sure he wanted to meet anyone that could freak out a bad guy that much. There was, for better or worse, no response from the shadows. The threatening guy took a stumbling step backwards, taking Foggy with him. Still no response.

And then there was a loud crack from behind them.

Foggy found himself knocked aside in the scuffle and went crashing into a wall. Um. Ow.

Meanwhile, there was a lot of punching noises and swearing going on but Foggy was too busy trying to catalogue his minor injuries and get his bearings to deal with it. With no guarantee that either of the people fighting was remotely on the right side of the law, he was going to keep himself as the priority.

Starting with getting up. Right now.

Seriously.

Now.

Distantly, he noticed the commotion had gone silent. Cool. Great.

Foggy staggered to his feet, bracing himself with one palm against the alley wall. It took a few moments for his eyes to focus, but once they did they settled firmly on the lithe form of a single man, the upper half of his face covered in a black mask.

A… A mask.

Foggy blinked. Blinked again. No, Dread Pirate Roberts was definitely still there. For three long seconds, Foggy’s brain chugged uselessly. And then it clicked.

“You’re the— the guy,” he stammered. “Who saved Karen.”

A thin, mocking smirk tilted the masked man’s lips, and he nudged aside the unconscious dude at his feet to take a step closer to Foggy.

“I am,” he said in a low, rough voice.

“Holy shit.” Foggy shook his head. “I mean, uh. Thanks for the save, dude.”

The masked guy dipped his head.

“My pleasure.”

Oh. Wow. Yeah. Foggy was maybe going to be thinking about those words said in that voice for… Longer than appropriate. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and fell back on his usual defense – humor.

“Well, my brief foray into heroism seems to be a flop,” joked Foggy. “Not only did I not save anyone, I ended up needing saving myself. Zero out of ten.”

There was a soft, fluttering exhale from the man in the mask, as though he were trying to stifle a laugh.

“I don’t know,” he replied to Foggy, warmly. “I’d give you at least a solid five. You certainly saved my night.”

Oh. Foggy swallowed thickly. Oh, was that…? Was the masked guy…? Was he _flirting_? No, no. That… That wasn’t flirting. Was it? No, it couldn’t have been.

Foggy’s dating history included a lot of very hot people, so it wasn’t a low self-esteem thing. It was just… Come on, some crazy street-fighting vigilante? Having the hots for a random dude he just met? Really?

No, if there was sexual tension it was pretty much guaranteed to be one-sided.

Foggy cleared his throat.

“So. Um. What exactly was up with… That guy?” he wondered.

Immediately, the masked man’s mouth twisted into an ugly snarl.

“Human trafficker,” he explained shortly. “Tried to grab a high schooler.”

“Ah.” Yeah, ok, Foggy didn’t feel that bad for him, then; well, except, uh… “… He’s alive, though, right?”

Again, the masked guy’s expression changed on a dime, though Foggy couldn’t quite make out what it might mean with only a mouth to work from.

“He’s alive.” And then the man lifted up a gloved hand, with all the fingers curled down but his pinkie. “Pinkie promise.”

“I’m pretty sure those aren’t legally binding,” Foggy pointed out, amused and just barely stifling a laugh. “And I should know.”

“Not a police officer, though, I’m guessing, or I’d have a gun pointed at me,” came the response, in an odd tone that Foggy couldn’t quite parse.

“Nah. Lawyer.”

The masked man nodded, then hauled the unconscious human trafficker up over his shoulder.

“Well, counselor, I’d offer to walk you home,” he said, “but I really need to get this man into police custody.”

“Maybe next time,” Foggy said bravely.

There was a pause from the masked man, who’d already begun turning away, and Foggy felt an embarrassed sweat begin to bead the back of his neck. Probably… Not the best thing to do, flirt with the potentially-slightly-crazy vigilante that you’d just met and who had just saved you.

But apparently Foggy had a very terrible track record when it came to flirting with hot guys the second he met them. And the masked man? His clingy black shirt left _nothing_ to the imagination.

“Maybe,” agreed the masked man at last, implausibly, with a dazzling flash of white teeth. “But I’d prefer you didn’t put yourself in danger just to see me again, no matter how enjoyable it would be.”

“R-right. Yeah, right.”

And before Foggy could collect himself to say more, the masked guy had darted up a fire escape, still with the unconscious criminal in tow. Wow. Foggy shook his head, baffled. But finally, the stinking alley smell filtered in again, and Foggy decided maybe he should get home.

He dusted himself off, strode out of the alley, and walked back to his apartment without pausing once.

* * *

The next morning, Foggy realized after waking twenty minutes late that he’d forgotten to set his alarm. He hurried through his morning routine, barely sparing himself a glance in the mirror, and rushed into work.

“Sorry, guys!” he said as he made a beeline for the kitchenette. “Forgot to set my alarm.”

There was a click-click-click of heels on the floor, and then Karen was at his side.

“You know, that’s not very responsible for the partner of a prestigious law firm like N—” She cut off suddenly with a gasp, and Foggy looked up to find her brow crinkled in worry. “Oh, Foggy, what happened?”

“What?” wondered Foggy as he filled his mug with terrible coffee. “Do I look that bad?”

Matt leaned out of the doorway of his office.

“Something wrong?” he chimed in.

“Foggy has a scratch on his temple,” Karen called back to him. “It’s pretty rough-looking.”

Foggy pulled a face at Karen, and she narrowed her pretty blue eyes back at him – the message was startlingly clear for all that they hadn’t known each other long. _You’d better not be trying to take advantage of Matt’s blindness to hide your injury, buster_ , she was telling him. And, ok, maybe she had a point. Plus, since the cat was out of the bag, Foggy didn’t want Matt to freak out and worry about it – which was completely in character for him, no matter what Matt himself claimed.

“I’m fine, Karen,” Foggy insisted. “It’s probably from last night, I didn’t even notice it. I just got in the middle of a scuffle on my way home. No harm done, no serious injuries sustained.”

Karen was persistent, though.

“What kind of scuffle?”

“I met your— guy, your masked guy,” Foggy explained, taking a sip of the coffee and screwing up his face in response; the things he did for his caffeine fix. “He totally saved my ass last night.”

“Still think he’s a nut?” asked Karen loftily, refilling her own mug and taking a drink as of to punctuate her question.

“I mean— Kind of, yeah. But like, a really hot nut.” Karen snorted coffee out her nose and Foggy rethought all of the life choices that had led him to that particular moment while handing her a napkin to wipe her face. “Ok, that was. That wasn’t the best choice of words, I’ll admit it, but you know what I meant.”

“Do we?” Matt asked from way closer than he should have been, and Foggy started so hard he nearly spilled his own coffee everywhere.

“Jesus, Matt! Give a guy some warning!”

“I’m just curious,” Matt defended, leaning against the kitchenette counter with the worst and most damningly handsome cocky smirk known to man. “Please, regale us with more stories of the masked man’s hot nut.”

Karen, caught off guard once again, sprayed her latest swig of coffee all over the wall. After a brief, irritated smack to Matt’s arm, she grabbed a handful of napkins and started dabbing up the stain, still biting back laughter.

“You’re fired,” Foggy told her firmly. “And you.” He jabbed Matt in the side with his index finger. “You’re fired also.”

“You can’t fire me, I’m a partner at this firm,” argued Matt.

“If you two can’t figure out how to bill people, I doubt you’ve figured out how to write pink slips either,” added Karen, because apparently the two of them were a team now; an evil, evil team intent on tormenting Foggy.

“My name comes first on the door,” Foggy pointed out, moving towards his office, coffee in hand, with great dignity. “That means I’m the more powerful boss. So yes, you are both fired. I’d like to see your offices packed by noon tomorrow.”

He closed his office door behind himself firmly. A few seconds later, there was a knock on it.

“Come—come on, Fog, don’t be like that,” Matt called, laughter in his voice.

“Your handsome wounded duck charm won’t faze me, Matthew! You’re still fired!”

Not that Foggy was actually angry – and it was pretty clear Matt and Karen knew it – but he was… A little embarrassed, and he was going to bury it in joking indignation and paperwork. There were no further attempts to draw his attention, so Foggy was pretty successful in that aspect for the next hour or so. And then, another knock on the door.

Foggy took stock of his embarrassment for a moment and decided he’d reached equilibrium enough to answer. It was a good choice, he learned, since Matt was on the other side of the door holding a knockoff cronut and smiling expectantly.

“… You’re un-fired,” Foggy informed him, and snatched up the pastry to stuff his face.

“Oh, good,” replied Matt ironically, not even bothering to fake relief. “I really need this job.”

Foggy rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the grin overtaking his own face. The cronut was so good he un-fired Karen as well, even if she did spend the rest of the day giggling the words ‘hot nut’ into her hand.

So, maybe he wasn’t some fancy rich lawyer in a shiny chrome office, Foggy thought as they closed up for the evening and headed to Josie’s, but in his estimation, things were still pretty much perfect.


	2. Oh, Is This Your Fire Escape?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his slip-up in the alley, Matt vows to keep his distance from Foggy while patrolling. It works about as well as you might expect. That is to say, not at all.

Contrary to the fact that he spent his nights running across rooftops dressed in black and punching criminals in the face, Matt Murdock was not reckless. Or. Ok, well, he _was_ , but his recklessness was, you know, _calculated_. He only did what he did because he could. Because no one else would do it and Matt’s particular skills were perfect for the job.

So, even if his judgment might seem suspect to others, he at least knew when he’d made a mistake.

Because with the mask— with the mask it all went out the window; the need to be calm, soft-spoken, normal Matt Murdock. The need to hide that he could do the things he could do. The need to hold back what he felt or thought.

There were things Matt knew he could never do or have as Matthew Murdock. He couldn’t run full-out, he couldn’t let on how much he could truly sense about the world around him, and he couldn’t risk ruining his relationship with his best friend by flirting. But the man in the mask had no identity to worry about, no best friend to lose. Which probably explained why Matt had completely lost control of his mouth in the face of Foggy’s attention.

But no matter how wonderful that release felt, Matt’s slip-up showed him one thing: being around Foggy while in the mask was a really bad idea. A temptation Matt needed to resist. There was no good reason to associate with Foggy then and a lot of good reasons not to.

Matt had put on the mask to help the people of Hell’s Kitchen, not for his own gain.

Matt was already gaining powerful enemies in the mask; if word got around that he and Foggy knew one another, it would put Foggy in danger.

And, most terrifying of all, the more time spent around Foggy while in the mask, the more likely it was that he would put two and two together and figure out that the man in the mask was Matt. Matt could protect Foggy from outside forces, trusted his skill enough to do that, but he couldn’t make Foggy stay if he decided to leave; if he decided Matt was too much trouble to be around.

So. What was done was done – the masked man had flirted with Foggy. And Matt teasing him about it afterward was just harmless fun, really. Also, in Matt’s defense, Karen had started it. But. That had to be the end of things. Just a blip on the radar, an amusing anecdote for Foggy to tell every time he was drunk and needed a good laugh – that one time he met a masked vigilante in the back alleys of Hell’s Kitchen. Like spotting a particularly colorful pigeon or an amusing street performer, or Foggy’s stock story about his mom wanting him to be a butcher. The masked man and Foggy would never meet again.

And in return, Matt got to keep the words ‘really hot’ tucked in his pathetic heart next to ‘really, really good-looking guy’.

It was a fair exchange, and a good plan. Which meant, of course, that it all went completely to shit.

* * *

Matt was good for two weeks and three days. He stayed away, did no more than listen briefly between fights for Foggy’s heartbeat to make sure it was easy and calm.

But then.

Then, well. There had been something of a perfect storm. Matt had forgotten to eat supper, which meant he hadn’t had a bite since lunch with Karen and Foggy. He’d taken a blow to the head, and while Claire seemed certain enough it hadn’t concussed him, the ache drummed through his skull in the most distracting way. And finally, it was sometime past four in the morning, which meant Matt hadn’t closed his eyes for longer than a blink in over twenty-two hours.

It wasn’t a good combination for his stamina, and it wasn’t a good combination for his self-control. The result being, Matt found himself stumbling onto Foggy’s fire escape on his way home from Claire’s apartment and having some trouble getting up.

It was fine, though, he convinced himself woozily. Fine. He could sit on the fire escape and catch his breath, could listen to that steady and beloved heartbeat, and Foggy would be none the wiser. It didn’t have to count against his policy of staying away from Foggy in the mask because as long as Foggy didn’t know he was there, Matt technically hadn’t broken the rules. He’d just, you know, bent them a tiny bit. Which was par for the course for a lawyer-slash-vigilante.

Matt nodded to himself, so decided, and then groaned softly when it gave him the spins. Nope. Ok. Just… A few more seconds. Or a minute. Just a good minute to rest, that was all he needed. Really. Any moment he’d stand up and make his way h—

“Whoa.”

_Shit_.

How had he not even noticed that Foggy was awake?

There was a click, two, as Foggy undid the latches, and then the slide of the window opening. It would be better to stand, probably, but Matt couldn’t summon the energy to get up off his knees.

“Evening,” he said with a sharp grin because he couldn’t think of another response.

There was a long, long pause. Foggy’s heart raced in that particular way that Matt knew meant he wanted to say something but was holding back. All that rhythm did was make Matt want to tug off a glove, reach out and touch – find out if Foggy’s mouth was moving, forming silent syllables as he worked out his response. Thankfully, despite his clearly impaired judgment, Matt managed to force the impulse down.

Foggy cleared his throat.

“Ok,” he said, with the sort of slow firmness Matt knew he usually reserved for pushy drunks, “you saved me that one time. And I’m grateful, man, I really am, but. Are you stalking me? Because that is seriously not kosher.”

Matt, startled and alarmed by the accusation, shook his head harshly. Which sent the pain in his head rattling all the louder. He groaned and clutched his skull with a hand.

“No, I. I didn’t, I wouldn’t,” he promised through gritted teeth. “I. I can go. Sorry.”

“Wait.” Then there was warmth, beautiful warmth as Foggy’s hand closed lightly over one of Matt’s arms. “Don’t… Don’t go flinging yourself off the fire escape or anything, ok? That level of acrobatics might be a little much for you right now.”

“I’m fine,” Matt croaked.

“You don’t… _Seem_ fine, dude. By any stretch of the imagination at all. Like, no offense, but you should probably see a doctor.”

Matt smiled wearily, shrugged.

“I have a nurse.”

“Of course you do,” Foggy sighed.

The familiar swish of his hair told Matt that Foggy was shaking his head; the warmth of his tone told Matt it was with amusement rather than irritation. Something about it made Matt want to push his luck.

“If you want to kiss it better, though, counselor, you’re welcome to,” he crooned.

All that got him was a gratifying ba-dump-bump and Foggy’s hand moved from his arm to shove him away by the face.

“No thanks, who knows where those lips have been? Foggy Nelson does _not_ kiss strange men in the moonlight.”

“Foggy, hm?” teased Matt, rocking back to get some room to talk. “Cute. I like it.”

“Pssh. Flatterer.” There was a pause then, a breath. “Um. So. Nothing I can call you, then?”

Any alias Matt could think up on the fly would give him away. Even ‘Mike’ would be a bit too close for comfort. So he kept his mouth shut and shrugged. There was a soft huff from Foggy.

“A hero of mystery, huh? Well, I guess I do like a man with some alliteration in his name. Going for that triple-M threat?” he said teasingly.

Matt choked on his inhale so hard it sent him into a violent coughing fit that did his headache no favors.

“Sorry, what?” he rasped when he could breathe again.

“Uh, you know, like ‘Mysterious Masked Man’. Are… Are you ok? Besides the obvious, I mean.”

_Not really, no_ , Matt thought hysterically because he was pretty sure he’d just given himself a heart attack over a dorky acronym that only coincidentally matched his initials.

“Swallowed wrong,” he lied instead.

“Water?” offered Foggy.

“Mm. Thanks.”

Matt rested his head against the windowsill, followed Foggy’s sleepy footsteps to the kitchen with his ears. The clack of a cupboard door opening. The squeak of the tap. The rush of water in glass. Then the same soft, padded footsteps back to the window.

Matt made sure to grasp the glass firmly, to check his grip. His headache, after all, had made him a little clumsy. He didn’t want to break Foggy’s glass. And if that meant that his fingers pressed against Foggy’s for a few seconds, well, that was just coincidence. Really.

It also, again completely coincidentally, provided him with the chance to hear that embarrassed ba-dump-bump again.

Matt drank the glass down, slowly, and found that it did help soothe his throat a little. He hadn’t even realized he’d been thirsty. After he’d drained it and handed it back, though, there really was no excuse to stay. Matt had lingered longer than he meant to, had broken his rule of avoiding Foggy while in the mask, and was finally feeling physically able enough to make it back home before he crashed.

With a groan, he pushed to his feet.

“You won’t have to worry about mysterious masked men on your fire escape anymore, I don’t think,” Matt promised, barely restraining himself from reaching through the window and stroking a hand against Foggy’s cheek.

Foggy shook his head.

“Look dude, I’m pretty much _guaranteed_ to worry now. I wasn’t just embellishing before, you really do look like shit. What little of you I can see, anyway. So maybe just— You know, check in, if you have the time. Before you go limping back to your Batcave or whatever.”

Which was. An absolutely terrible idea. There was no way Matt could justify doing that. So of course what came out of his mouth was,

“Well, if it’ll help you sleep easy, counselor.”

“You drank my tap water, you know,” Foggy replied lightly. “That makes us buddies. You can call me Foggy.”

“Well. Then goodnight, Foggy.” Matt couldn’t help making a slightly theatrical bow. “Until we meet again.”

“Night, Triple-M. Don’t let the mafias bite.”

Matt couldn’t help but smile.

“I won’t.”

If his leaps were a bit showy until he was out of Foggy’s range of sight… Well, no one could prove it.


	3. Feelings About Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy learns a little more about the man in the mask. He also tries very hard to think happy thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going to be pretty busy for me soon between work, NaNoWriMo, and fandom Secret Santa stuff, so fic updates might slow down until the holiday season is over.

And so, somehow, Foggy found himself engaged in a bizarre friendship. Well. A _more_ bizarre friendship, considering that he had to factor in his curve-wrecking best friend. Despite having a put-together façade, Matt Murdock was a weird dork of the highest level. Even he couldn’t out-weird the masked man, though, because once you go Full Batman you kind of blow everyone else out of the water.

That Foggy found himself not just concerned for but charmed by the local vigilante was weird enough. He had his, you know, vague violent fantasies like everyone else did – the desire to bash a particularly repugnant set of the criminal element over the head with his softball bat, for instance – but that was all they were. Fantasies. And then here was some ding-dong going out and actually living the dream with absolutely zero accountability or oversight. That wasn’t just reckless or stupid, it was downright scary. What happened if he went too far? If he attacked someone who was innocent? Who would be able to hold him responsible for that?

Not, again, that some of the stuff Triple-M was doing wasn’t commendable. After that first encounter, in the alley, Foggy had maybe been a little intrigued about the dope in the mask. When Karen had told him and Matt about getting saved, Foggy had just considered it a one-off – but if the guy was chasing human traffickers all over the Kitchen, there was something else going on. So, Foggy had reached out a little. Trawled the waters, as it were.

He knew a lot of people, ok?

* * *

First, as always, had been Bess Mahoney’s all-knowing old lady poker ring because, as their moniker implied, they knew everything always.

“Frankie,” Bess said knowingly when he knocked on her door during poker night with a paper bag of cigars and a small cheesecake.

Bess had known Foggy since he was four and was one of only three people who still called him Frankie.

“Hi, Bess!” greeted Foggy brightly. “Brought you a present.”

She knew all his tricks, of course, so she snatched up the cigars and waved him on through with the cheesecake. He deposited it on the kitchen counter and smiled winningly at the poker ladies. They were arranged around Bess’s kitchen table in a circle – Opal Jones, Nadia Patel, Yawen Li, and Maria Ramirez; with a fifth chair empty and waiting for Bess.

“Well?” she had asked, brushing past him to take up her cards again. “What is it this time, Frankie?”

Foggy mulled over the proper way to phrase his answer as he cut the cheesecake into six equal slices.

“Well,” he began, glancing over his shoulder to let Opal read his lips better. “You lovely ladies are the ones to go to when in need of information. I was wondering if you’ve heard anything about a guy running around all in black and, you know, punching bad guys?”

Which sounded like a bad joke even as he was saying it, but no one laughed. Opal slid a few chips towards the pot and tilted her head at Maria, who held her cards in one hand and flapped the other back at Opal in irritation.

“I hear the boys talking,” Maria finally said. “They say he is playing rough with the gangsters.”

Nadia shook her head and folded with a sour expression. Then she held out an elegant, long-fingered hand for cheesecake. Foggy handed her a plate, fork already stuck in the dessert.

“He brought the little Calvin boy home from those Bratva shitheads after his father got in bad with them and he was taken as collateral. Not a scratch on the boy, but he upended the entire operation at Troika,” she told him after the first bite. “Mmh. Franklin, this is very good, where did you get it from?”

“I stopped at Anika’s place on the way and you know it,” he told her with a laugh. “She and Dominique send their love.”

“My girls,” Nadia sighed, pleased.

“No one else could compare,” Opal mocked in a dramatic voice, signing a little as she spoke, before Nadia could say the well-worn words herself. “Barely thirty and already with a pretty wife and a successful business!”

“Can anyone hold a candle to my darling Anika?” teased Yawen, picking up where Opal left off.

“The answer is no,” Nadia sniffed, taking another bite of cheesecake.

There was a slight twinkle in Bess’s eyes that told Foggy she was amused by her friends’ antics, but the rest of her expression was carefully pursed and thoughtful.

“Brett mentioned there might be a character like that lurking around,” she admitted. “But you’re not the kind of boy to go chasing streetfighters around, Frankie.”

If he’d thought it would work, he would have buried his face in his own slice of cheesecake. As it was, deterring Bess Mahoney from getting answers was pretty much impossible.

“He might have… Saved me. Once. So I’m curious.”

“That I would believe,” mused Yawen. “I remember you used to drag poor young Brett into the worst sort of trouble chasing pretty girls and boys.”

Foggy didn’t bother to defend himself. Besides the fact that it was pretty much true, he knew that as much as the poker ladies loved him they would always take Brett’s side just to tease him.

“That’s what his big agenda is, then, you think?” he asked instead. “Busting up organized crime?”

There was silence as the ladies looked among each other and then stared Foggy down.

“He gets the muggers too,” Yawen said at last, setting her cards face-down with a sigh. “And domestic abusers. My Annie just got promoted down at Metro General, and she says all the nurses on the night shift know the masked man’s work very well. Maybe he’s a good man, Franklin, but a very dangerous one.”

“Ask Javi and the boys down at the bodega, if you want to hear more about him,” Maria said. “But she’s right. Don’t go looking.”

And that was all any of them would say on the subject for the rest of the night. After Yawen slaughtered her competition with a few lucky hands, they dealt Foggy in. He proceeded to lose spectacularly every time.

* * *

On Maria’s advice, he had gone down to the bodega her nephew Javier worked at and asked him for more information. Turned out he’d gotten held up a few weeks before, nothing unusual, except that suddenly a fighter in black had burst through the door and knocked the guy flat with one hit. And he wasn’t the only one with a story like that, he told Foggy with authority. Which led him to a bar a couple blocks from Josie’s to speak to Anita, the bartender, about the time the masked man had broken a rapist’s arm and then gently lead the girl he’d been attacking back inside to Anita. And then Foggy found himself somehow speaking to a waiter at one of those restaurants that was definitely a front for something, who mentioned seeing a couple boys busting up a game shop before a man in a mask stopped them.

“Real careful-like, too,” he said with a sort of quiet admiration. “Barely a bruise. Herded ‘em off emptyhanded before the cops showed. Like a… A second chance, you know?”

So, Foggy had concluded. The guy was violent, there was no doubt about that. But he was gentle with kids, with vulnerable people. Didn’t stop to talk much, never joked – which made Foggy’s experience something of an anomaly – but always seemed to know the score. What it all balanced out to was that even though Foggy didn’t see eye to eye with the man in the mask, he’d realized the guy wasn’t as totally Froot Loops as he sounded.

* * *

And then, of course, he’d shown up on Foggy’s fire escape like a creeper.

And he’d been apologetic, and charming, and injured. So, ok, maybe Foggy was a little bit of a sucker. Not enough to give it away to his mysterious visitor, he hoped, but… In the end, his worry had been enough for him to ask the guy to maybe check in once in a while.

The weirdest part of the entire bizarre situation, though, was that the masked man actually agreed to do it. Or, well, no, because the actual weirdest part was that he followed through.

It became a routine. Not every night, but some nights, Foggy would get a soft ratta-tat-tat on his apartment window and he’d open it to find a dangerous, wounded shadow with a sharp and pretty smile on the other side. Then he’d ply the vigilante with water and quiet conversation, fuss over the injuries Triple-M’s mysterious nurse had sewn up, and let him rest at the window.

But he never invited him inside. That was the line that Foggy wouldn’t cross; he was deep enough as it was, anything more would just be asking for trouble. The masked man, thankfully, seemed to understand that, and never pressed or complained.

Every time he stood to leave, he would trace his gloved fingertips over the bottom sill of the window, over Foggy’s forearms which were invariably resting there. It was always a quick brush, as though it were an accident – the masked man never lingered – but it happened every time, too often to not be deliberate.

Foggy wasn’t sure what he thought about that.

He didn’t stop leaning against the windowsill, though, and maybe that was answer enough.

* * *

Even with an extra, super weird component to his nights, Foggy’s focus was still on Nelson and Murdock. Owning a business was hard enough on its own, Foggy knew from his family – if you let something seriously distract you from it, shit could go downhill fast. And Foggy was already starting a few paces back just by dint of being part of the world’s dumbest imaginary love triangle.

“Morning, Foggy!” Karen would greet him brightly every morning – why was she always so _early_ , and where did she get that chipper morning person attitude from?

Foggy’s dumb heart would stumble in his chest and he’d bury it in a mug of Karen’s awful coffee and a quip.

“Good morning, Karen! You look like an angel today, although I’m sure that it hasn’t improved your coffeemaking any.”

He’d then silently berate himself about getting in later than her as he walked to his office – ignoring Karen’s middle finger and the soft smile that accompanied it – then vow to come in earlier so he could actually brew something that wasn’t liable to burn off his stomach lining. He never did, though, because hearing that cheerful ‘morning, Foggy’ first thing as he stepped into the office was too precious to pass up; second only to Matt’s laugh when it was loud and unselfconscious.

It was simultaneously the best and worst fact of his life that Foggy often found himself surrounded by people who were hot like burning.

And it wasn’t that he wanted to date Karen.

Well, ok, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to date her, either. She was very smart and very pretty and her nose did this cute crinkly thing when she laughed that made his heart squeeze a bit in his chest. So, he wouldn’t be opposed, exactly, if she asked him out.

She also made some serious goo-goo eyes at Matt, so Foggy knew she wasn’t gonna give _him_ a second look. No one who made goo-goo eyes at Matt ever did. And that was fine! It wasn’t as if Foggy wasn’t making some pretty stupid goo-goo eyes at Matt himself half the time. All the time. Whatever, Foggy could round down if he wanted to.

The difference between himself and Karen, however, was that she actually stood a chance at making it into Matt’s dating pool. The two of them looked good together, Foggy thought, and he had ten years of experience evaluating how Matt looked with his many, many girlfriends. It wasn’t just aesthetic, either. Karen, with her vulnerable exterior and steely core, was a perfect complimentary foil to Matt’s tough outer walls and gooey marshmallow center. They’d take good care of each other.

And Foggy would take good care of them because he was a great friend and an even better wingman.

So it was fine. Would be fine. Whatever. At least, Foggy consoled himself, he wasn’t overbearingly jealous or inconsolably devastated. That was what was important. Because at the end of the day, Matt and Karen were his friends, and he _liked_ them – being sad or angry in their presence 24/7 for something they couldn’t control would have sucked majorly. A prickle of sadness now and again was actually a pretty chill and healthy response in comparison.

It was just that life sometimes twisted the knife a little, was all.

* * *

The sad thing was that it had actually been kind of a great day. Foggy and Karen had convinced Matt to come out to Josie’s with them instead of wherever it was he’d been running off to lately – Matt was a private guy, one who liked to keep things close to the vest, so Foggy had let it go for the moment even though it was against his nature as a busybody. Karen was happily regaling the two of them with a story about a cute dog she’d met while grabbing lunch for everyone.

“You really do have a beautiful voice, Karen,” Matt mentioned in a quiet, sweet voice with a quiet, sweet look on his face the second Karen paused to take a sip of her drink.

Foggy’s heart lurched and his stomach flipped. By her expression, the exact same thing had happened to Karen but for the opposite reason. Cool. Perfect. Karen tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and smiled back at Matt.

“Thanks.”

The two of them gazed at each other – for a certain definition of gazed, because, obviously, Matt couldn’t actually see worth shit – and Foggy had two sharp, painful feelings simultaneously. The first was that there should probably be a soft, romantic movie score playing in the background instead of whatever Josie had on the radio. The second was that he felt like he’d just been handed a script for Hero’s Idiot Sidekick. Neither of those feelings was a nice feeling, which didn’t _excuse_ how Foggy interrupted the moment next but at least explained _why_.

“And a beautiful face and a beautiful soul,” Foggy added decisively and a little too loudly. “Which is why you fit right in at Nelson and Murdock, because we are a beautiful firm full of beautiful people. Well. Except for Matt. Sorry, Matt. Your voice and your soul pass muster, but your face…”

Far from aiming a quick, tight-mouthed angry look at Foggy – the face he often made when interrupted from his flirting by someone – Matt laughed. The same bright, happy, loud laugh that was Foggy’s favorite sound in the world.

“That sounds— that sounds like a lie,” Matt insisted, clearly pleased. “Or else you’ve been lying to me since we met, buddy, and I’m not sure which one is worse.” Matt leaned drunkenly to the side to not-really-whisper in Karen’s ear. “He always— always called me a duck, a… A _handsome duck_. What do you think, Karen? Second opinion?”

“I’m not really sure what a handsome _duck_ looks like,” laughed Karen. “But you look very nice, Matt.”

“There!” Matt proclaimed triumphantly. “There. Karen thinks I’m pretty too. Witness testimony. Beat that.”

Foggy waved his hand as if to wipe the words out of the air.

“Nope. Sorry. There’s clear bias here. It’ll all have to be thrown out. The court finds that your case and your face are both ridiculous, so there.”

The mock-offended look on Matt’s face was one of his best, only enhanced by his drunkenness. He straightened up and waved a stern finger in Foggy’s general direction.

“See here. I won’t take— I won’t take that from a man with a name as ridiculous as Franklin.”

“Your name is _Franklin_?” Karen asked.

“Only when people who were sworn to secrecy – _Matthew_ – let it slip,” replied Foggy as he lunged for Matt.

And, of course, Matt just so happened to slide out of his chair and move barely out of reach. There was a gleeful mischief-making grin on his dumb perfect face that told Foggy that Matt knew exactly what he was doing. After ten years of horsing around, he’d determined Foggy’s range and was adept at finding himself just outside it after doing something aggravating. Almost always while wearing a shit-eating grin that was as unfairly beautiful as the rest of him was.

Seriously. Matt Murdock. What an asshole. Foggy wanted to hit him.

In the mouth.

With his own mouth.

Ok, so he wanted to kiss him, but that was. You know. How could you not, right?

“Some parents name their children after Biblical figures, some name them after the Roosevelts,” Matt concluded with a veneer of solemnity that didn’t match his expression. “It’s all perfectly natural.”

“Yeah, wait until I tell Ma you’re making fun of our names. She’ll sic the grandkids on you and then what will you do?”

That shut Matt up real quick, although it didn’t stop him from pouting. Foggy kind of wanted to kiss that off his face too. Thank god for Karen, who then demanded to know all about the extensive Nelson family tree. It kept Foggy rambling for almost an hour, and by then his heart and his stomach and his feelings had all settled again.

Matt had been right, after all. Karen _did_ have a pretty voice. There was nothing wrong in him pointing it out, even if it _was_ one of Matt’s flirtiest pickup lines. It was perfectly normal, and it wasn’t like Karen seemed at all unhappy to be flirted with, so there was no reason to be upset on that front. Foggy was just having a Stupid Feelings Flare-Up, that was all, and he was bound and determined to drown it; probably in more alcohol and dorky toasts about friendship.

So decided, Foggy picked up his drink to begin.


	4. Here With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt considers Foggy's feelings for Karen. The masked man visits Foggy. Hiding a secret identity takes constant vigilance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I managed to churn out 2163 words for my NaNo story, beating my daily quota of 1700 words, and I still had time to finish out this chapter! I probably won't be able to hold this pace, but I guess we'll find out as November goes on. :)

Even if his entire existence was something of a breach of privacy, Matt did really _try_ to allow for as much discretion as possible. He didn’t purposely eavesdrop on his friends, he didn’t go digging when he heard a lie. Interrogation was for criminals, and Matt more than anyone knew there were reasons – good reasons – that people kept secrets.

But the thing about being with someone every day for a decade, about integrating them so thoroughly into your existence, was that sometimes you tuned in automatically. Matt used Foggy as a sensory touchstone because he was steady and familiar and unchanging. Set in his ways. Part of that was due to Matt himself, which was both slightly painful and deeply touching – Foggy had settled into routines that made life easier for Matt, that accommodated him. His running commentary, keeping the layout of his apartment and their office unchanging, even foregoing colognes when he’d realized in undergrad that the scent of them in close proximity was a little too strong for Matt’s nose.

Foggy’s heart was as steady and reliable as the rest of him – except when he greeted Karen in the mornings. It shuffled, hopped, even skipped, then. Like a puppy with a wagging tail. It was a pattern Matt had heard before, of course.

A lot.

Foggy was as addicted to falling in love as he was to Broadway musicals and cheesy snack foods. He’d fallen in love with a girl from his Punjabi class, with Marci, with what felt like hundreds of different classmates across campus, with a fellow intern at L&Z. With movie stars and chefs and artists – from afar, through their creations. With a particularly handsome barista, once or twice. Foggy’s heart beat eagerly for all of them.

Never with Matt. Not except the once, the day they’d first met. And Matt – so young then, so used to putting up walls, to not relying on people – had been more baffled by his eagerness, his easygoing attitude, than anything else. The bright, warm tone of Foggy’s voice had, in a few short hours, busted down emotional barriers that had been years in the making. There really hadn’t been any attention or energy left to spare on deciphering the quickened patter of Foggy’s heart, at the time.

Not until he heard it again and again around other people. By the time he’d truly parsed its meaning, Matt had tried not to put too much stock in it – that special fluttering rhythm that announced Foggy’s attraction didn’t tend to last. Still, deep down, Matt knew someday it would. Maybe even with Karen.

And if it did… If it did then…

The thought of it tore a hollow in Matt’s chest. But if it was what made Foggy happy, in the end, what kind of friend would begrudge it? Whatever hurt Matt felt about the idea, he would get over it.

Or so Matt had thought, when he’d first noticed. But no matter how he tried to distract himself – with work, with crimefighting, with his fists against a punching bag at Fogwell’s – Matt couldn’t stop thinking about the way Foggy’s heart stuttered when talking to Karen.

And Karen was… Matt _liked_ Karen, he liked her a lot. Found her personality pleasant and her sensory output soothing. Karen was earnest and determined and steely. She was beautiful, too – from Foggy’s perspective and from his own. She completed their little law office like the final piece to a puzzle. But realizing that Foggy had a crush on her? It stirred something in him, some deep pit of longing.

So maybe the masked man showed up on Foggy’s fire escape more often, between fights. Maybe he wielded touch like a weapon – careful applications calculated to gain the ground of Foggy’s affection, or at least his desire. A brush of his fingertips against Foggy’s, a gloved hand against Foggy’s cheek, tucking a stray lock of sleep-mussed hair behind his ear, a casual stretch upon standing that Matt knew from experience made people’s pulses jump.

It was. Cheating. Maybe. To use the things he knew about Foggy – what made his heart race, what he looked for in a sexual partner, the kinds of daydreams and idle wishes he’d admitted to Matt in college when they were drunk and wistful.

But each time the masked man coaxed one of those quick, sparking little tattoos out of Foggy’s heart, it made everything else fall away. Guilt and pain and fear, all overwhelmed and washed away by the simple satisfaction of being wanted.

* * *

It had been a good night – as much as any night filled with sirens and cries could be good. The Russians Matt had been chasing, and been chased by, in all honesty, had gone to ground. They were planning something, were part of something, Matt knew it. He needed to track them down, make them talk. They were Matt’s only connection to Wilson Fisk, whoever he truly was.

But that was the long game.

Sometimes there was a short game, and to keep his city safe Matt had to play both. The short game was an arsonist who’d torched three buildings in the last week. No casualties, thankfully, but thousands and thousands in property damage that couldn’t be undone by a fist in the face. Still, he would be off the streets, and the damage would stop.

That had been the most serious of Matt’s collars for the night, and it had gone as smooth as butter – once he finally found his guy. There was no need to stop at Claire’s for medical attention, even. But part of Matt felt unspooled, unmoored. He’d let the devil out and he needed someone to help him coax it back inside. So there he was, sitting on Foggy’s fire escape again.

“Stop any bad guys?” Foggy greeted when he opened the window, his voice low and rough with sleep.

Matt wanted to smile gently at the sound but didn’t let himself. Made the grin toothy and sharp instead.

“Sure did. Arsonist.”

A quick intake of breath and a stutter in Foggy’s heartbeat followed.

“The one that torched Tani’s sub shop?” he asked urgently, the heat of him moving closer as he leaned out the window.

“The very same,” Matt assured him. “Thought he was real tough, targeting local businesses that couldn’t afford security, but he had a hell of a glass jaw. Laid him flat in one hit.”

“Good,” Foggy decided savagely. “Uh. Well, I mean… Yeah, ok, you know what, he definitely deserved that punch, I don’t care. Tani and her brother Roy are good people and now they have to struggle with a bunch of bullshit insurance red tape just because some dickhead decided to get his jollies by setting their business on fire!”

Matt hummed, troubled. He’d overheard Tani calling Foggy’s cell on the way out of work a few nights before, and even if it wasn’t really their forte, helping her was the right thing to do. It was just…

“I don’t think he was doing it for fun,” Matt admitted. “I think… I think someone was paying him to do it.”

It was Foggy’s turn to go quiet, though he was never silent to Matt. The way he shifted and flexed his fingers – slide of cloth, stretch of muscle – meant his hands were itching for his softball to toss from hand to hand while he thought.

“Tani did say some company came to Roy and offered to buy the place. You think they’re behind it?” Foggy paused, took a shaky breath. “I could, you know, look into it a little. Maybe get you a name.”

The thought of Foggy putting himself on the radar of anyone willing to burn people’s businesses down just about froze Matt’s blood in his veins.

“ _No_ ,” he insisted, too loudly and too sharply.

“Fine, Jesus, I was just asking,” retorted Foggy, clearly stung.

Swallowing, Matt shook his head. He’d come to Foggy to wind down, to cool off after a night of fighting, but he was wound tighter than ever. And he’d taken out his fear on the person he was worried for. _Dick move, Murdock_ , said the chiding little voice in his head that always sounded like Foggy. Matt tried to wring all the stress out of himself with a loud sigh.

“No, it’s… I’m touched, really, that you want to help. But I don’t want you making yourself a target for me, that’s all.”

There was a subdued hum of agreement, and they lapsed into silence. Matt pressed the back of his head against the brick and tried not to think, tried not to feel. Just focused on the settling heartbeat only an arm’s length away.

“So what is your superpower anyway?” Foggy asked suddenly, changing the subject and cracking the tension cleanly in two like he always did.

And what a Foggy way to put it. _Superpower_. Matt’s remaining senses were enhanced to extraordinary levels, but superpowers? That was the sort of word for people like the Avengers, who fought aliens and evil robots. Matt was just a street brawler trying to clean up his neighborhood, he had nothing to do with that world.

“Who says I have one?”

“You’ve got some sort of something going on,” accused Foggy. “I’ve seen some footage, and you kick the crap out of guys you couldn’t possibly see coming.”

Which was true enough. After all, he definitely _didn’t_ see them coming.

“Yeah,” he teased, taking a seat on the side of the windowsill not taken up by Foggy’s arms. “Maybe so.”

“Mind reading?” Foggy guessed. “Or, no, X-ray vision!”

“Both wrong,” Matt replied, shaking his head.

Foggy hummed a little, considering. There was a soft tap-tappity-tap-tap as he drummed his fingers on the wood of the sill.

“Final answer: future sight.”

Wrong again, and just as spectacularly. After all, he didn’t have any sort of vision or sight, let alone a superpowered kind.

A laugh built in Matt’s chest, but he didn’t let it out into the cool night air. Foggy always made him laugh as Matt, enough so that the sound of it would probably be recognizable even to unenhanced ears. Matt couldn’t risk it. Still, a breathy little chuckle snaked its way past his lips.

“Third strike,” Matt said. “You’re out.”

“Ha! I’ll just try again tomorrow night,” promised Foggy warmly.

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

* * *

To help stave off any suspicions on the part of his friends, Matt had created something of a checklist of ways to separate himself from the man in the mask. The first item on the list was remembering to cover whatever injuries he could with makeup -- though he couldn’t actually see how it looked, he’d pleaded Claire into submission and she’d helped him get the right shade of concealer for his skin and checked him over the first few times until he was able to get the right coverage by feel. Whether Matt put on the concealer at Claire’s while getting stitched up or whether he waited until the next morning alternated by preference. In that way, even if he did show up at work looking a little battered, Foggy wouldn’t have seen the same injuries on the masked man.

It was a good first step, at least, he thought to himself as he shuffled through the papers at his desk. Even after visiting Foggy, he hadn’t been able to fall asleep, so instead he’d come in early to get a little work done. He’d even picked up a few breakfast pastries on his way. Foggy and Karen would be in soon and he’d surprise them with danishes, and maybe even weasel a few pleased little happy eating hums out of them both.

_There_ , he thought, catching the sound of their heartbeats at last. Just entering the building.

Which was precisely the instant that Matt remembered he _hadn’t_ put any concealer over the bruise on his cheekbone that Foggy had tsked over the previous night. Karen and Foggy were fast approaching the door to the office. There was only one thing to do. It wasn’t his best or smartest move, especially with his cracked ribs, but look, Matt was low on options. He was doing the best he could with the limited—

Alright, _fine_ , he flung himself out the window like a romcom protagonist trying to avoid her ex at a mutual friend’s wedding reception.

Clinging to the side of the building would just get him noticed by people on the street, so Matt clambered onto the roof as quickly as he could. It was closer than the ground, anyway.

“Huh,” he heard Karen say, and there was a crinkle of paper. “Blueberry danishes, nice. I guess Matt brought these in? But where is he?”

“Not in his office,” Foggy replied with a frowning sort of voice. “I’ll call him.”

Two quiet beeps, and then the calm voice of Matt’s phone, repeating Foggy’s name.

“Shit,” Matt hissed under his breath.

He’d left it on his desk.

“Jesus, Matt,” sighed Foggy. “Hate it when he does that. I just keep worrying he’s out there stuck in a well or something.”

“One of the plentiful array of wells we have here in New York?” replied Karen teasingly. “Come on, Foggy, I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe he just forgot something and ran home to get it?”

Oh, Karen! Matt wanted to kiss her. Er. Well. No, maybe that would send the wrong message, but the point was that she’d offered Matt the perfect excuse. He could hurry home, cover up his bruise, and then head back in to work claiming he’d left… Hm. Not his cane, no, but maybe…

Matt put a hand to his face to think and accidentally jostled his glasses.

Oh! That was perfect. Sure, he’d say he left his glasses. Foggy knew how uncomfortable he was without them, he’d believe Matt walked all the way back to his apartment to get them.

Energized, Matt clambered down the fire escape and hurried home.

When he returned to the office at last, Karen and Foggy had both eaten their danishes, but left him the third one. When Matt explained about his glasses, Foggy laughed and clapped him on the back.

“Getting forgetful in your old age, buddy?”

“He acts all easygoing now,” Karen said conspiratorially, nudging Matt with her shoulder, “but he was about three seconds from calling Detective Mahoney and ordering him to form a search party.”

“I was not!” Foggy yelped, embarrassment rolling off him tangibly with a rise in temperature Matt was sure correlated with a blush.

“Awww, Fog,” teased Matt, bringing a cup of coffee to his lips – tasted like Foggy had brewed it, for once, and he was endlessly grateful. “You do love me.”

“If you died mysteriously, everyone would think it was me, that’s all,” Foggy grumped back.

But as soon as Matt set his coffee mug down, Foggy tugged him into a tight hug, so Matt knew he was more worried than he’d let on. Matt squeezed back, resting his chin on Foggy’s shoulder. Selfishly, he hoped Foggy knew how much it meant to Matt that he cared. Hoped that even if the worst came to pass and Foggy found out his nightly visitor's true identity, he would still care even then.

“Well, I’m here,” Matt managed to choke out past the lump in his throat, trying hard for a smile. “I’m right here, so it. It’s all good.”


	5. A World On Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy spends more time with a certain vigilante. Matt focuses all his energy on the Russians. Hell's Kitchen goes up in flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next one are going to have a back-and-forth PoV format -- switching between Matt and Foggy with each section break instead of each having their own chapter, just to keep things roughly chronological.
> 
> Also: next chapter comes the boys' first hookup, so. You know. Look forward to that. It's still gonna have a Tasteful Fade To Black, but I'm pretty sure it's still gonna bump the rating up to M.

“Superspeed,” Foggy threw out, although he wasn’t at all convinced of it.

The masked man shook his head once again. There was a hint of a smile in the shape of his mouth, but it never blossomed into a full expression.

“No, not superspeed,” he refuted aloud, resting his hands behind him and leaning up to look at the sky.

Foggy still wondered a little, about the mask. There weren’t any eyeholes, that he could see, but… Maybe that was smarter. Wearing something sheer enough to see through, instead of cutting holes. After all, eye color couldn’t narrow down a list of suspects definitively, but it would be a good start. Especially if Triple-M had a rarer eye color, like green.

“Eh, I give up,” sighed Foggy, growing tired of the game for the night.

“No harm in surrendering,” the vigilante replied with his familiar sharp smile.

“This is not a surrender, it’s… A timeout. Someday I’ll get it.”

“Mmhmm. Sure you will.”

The words were smug, quietly pleased, and Foggy found himself grinning. He pressed that grin into his folded arms to hide it, and just stared at the picturesque way that the masked man was silhouetted in the moonlight. A quick pang of longing surged through Foggy’s chest at the sight. He wanted…

Foggy didn’t know what he wanted. Didn’t want to examine it too closely. But he wanted.

“Tell me again,” he said suddenly, to break himself from the spiral. “About the city.”

Foggy had lived in New York his whole life. He’d grown up in Hell’s Kitchen. He knew Triple-M’s stomping ground well. Knew almost everyone in a five-block radius. And yet… The way the masked man talked about the city – ‘my city’, he always called it, with a fierce and terrible love in his voice – was different than anything Foggy would have said, if someone had asked him to speak on the subject. Tiny details, quiet moments, things no single person could possibly know. It had something to do with his superpower, whatever it was, Foggy was certain. The same way he could predict a hit coming that he couldn’t possibly sense, he was dug deep into the very veins of Hell’s Kitchen so that he knew things about it no one else did. The city spoke to him, intimate whispers only he could hear, and some nights he translated them for Foggy. Wove a familiar world into a new and shining tapestry.

“Yeah, ok,” the man in the mask agreed tenderly, his face still pointed up at the dark sky. “There’s… Tonight, there’s a bachelorette party at a bar two blocks that way.”

He lifted a hand and pointed to his right.

“The Blue Star,” Foggy guessed.

“Mm.” A nod. “They’re happy. The bride-to-be – well, one of the brides-to-be – is drinking rainbow shots. Her laugh is like sunlight on your face—bright, and… Gentle. Light as a feather. And, um… There’s a box of jasmine in a window up the street; fourth floor, west side of the building. Makes the whole night sparkle when you pass it, sweet and heady and warm.”

The masked man continued, his words low and tender and barely a whisper; spun out tales of the night for blocks and blocks. Foggy pressed his face further into his arms, closed his eyes, and listened.

* * *

Every night, Matt pushed further, dug deeper into the Russian gang’s human trafficking operation. And he knew he was accomplishing things, saving people. He was. It was just difficult to…

Matt had been impatient, in the beginning, was the thing. He’d wanted to wrap the whole operation up with a bow and toss it into the waiting hands of the NYPD. He had never wanted to hear the kinds of cries that came from their work ever again. Not in his city. So he’d fought angrier. Sharper. Bloodied his fists for every inch.

And then they’d taken Claire, and Matt’s burning temper exploded into white-hot fury. Claire had been— She had helped him. Saved his life. He owed her. She wasn’t supposed to be… No one was supposed to be dragged into his fight. But the Russians had taken her. They’d _hurt_ her. So Matt hurt them right back. Sharp and fast and with blood in his teeth.

It took over his every waking thought, after that. Because it was personal. Because the Russians were down, but not out. And in Matt’s limited but growing experience with organized crime, that was when they were most dangerous. He doubled down on his patrols, begged off anything Foggy and Karen tried to rope him into. Even cut down on his visits to Foggy’s fire escape. As soon as he had the intel he needed, as soon as the world settled down again, as soon as Matt finally had a lead on Wilson Fisk… Then, then he would pull back from his single-minded focus on the fight. Matt knew he was close, closer than he’d been in weeks – thanks to the unwilling assistance of Detective Blake, the Ranskahovs were almost in Matt’s grasp. Almost. Once he had them, he could breathe again. He’d apologize, make time for his friends. Help Foggy with repairs for Elena’s apartment, the way Karen was currently doing.

He would. He just needed a little more time. He just needed to make sure the city was safe.

* * *

It was bad enough, Foggy thought, to stew in his own awkward, contradictory feelings. But the way Elena pushed him and Karen together, eager and pleased with herself, just made everything worse. She was sweet, and Foggy knew she meant well, but… Well, Karen didn’t want him.

And Foggy didn’t know what he wanted, personally. Didn’t know who to be jealous of, though he had no chance with either Matt or Karen and though he knew who his feelings were stronger for. Because it always came back to Matt, in the end. Matt Murdock, handsome wounded duck, tragic Byronic hero, infallible chick magnet with a burner phone just for his hookups with hot women, biggest dork in Hell’s Kitchen.

“Foggy,” Karen told him, sudden and a little breathless, “I want you to touch my face.”

_What?_ He swallowed thickly.

“Um, but I can see you so—”

Karen, however, was not to be deterred.

“No, I… I know,” she replied with an awkward little shrug. “I just, um. I want to know how someone who’s blind would see me.” Meaning, she wanted to close her eyes and imagine Matt touching her like that – slow, searching, intimate. “Look, you do me, then I’ll do you.”

The words were on his tongue – _don’t you think that’s a little cruel?_ – but he swallowed them down. Because Karen, Foggy was learning, had her sharp parts but she wouldn’t be asking him to do this if she knew how he felt. About Matt, about her, about Matt-and-her. She was just being curious. Longing. A little selfish, or self-centered, but in the kinds of ways everyone was. Foggy could understand that. He knew the kind of terrible yearning that came with falling in love with Matt Murdock.

But he wasn’t going to say yes. He… He couldn’t, really. It would just be… No, he wouldn’t do it. Foggy opened his mouth.

“Yeah, ok,” he said.

* * *

There was a single moment of silence, one unheard by everyone in the city but Matt – one last breath before the plunge. And then with a roar, four buildings blew apart and set the whole world on fire.

* * *

There was video. On the news, all across the news, of a very familiar figure in black. Foggy watched it from his hospital bed, those damning clips interspersed with wide sweeps across the destruction wrought in Hell’s Kitchen. The masked man, fighting cops, fleeing through the streets. They were saying he’d been the one to blow up the city. Calling him the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Karen was fierce, adamant, that it was a lie. That he’d been framed, that the man who’d saved her would never, ever do that.

And Foggy wanted to agree with her. Wanted to have her faith, wanted it so badly. But he couldn’t come to her conclusion just because he wanted it to be so.

Because what if Foggy had been wrong? What if he’d been wrong about everything? The thought was more painful than the hole in his side. He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to believe, that the man who’d spent so many nights sitting at his window and waxing poetic about the city could destroy it this way. That a man who spoke fiercely of protecting people would cause the kind of damage that had injured Elena, injured Foggy, the kind of damage that had a death toll that mounted by the hour. But…

But people weren’t always what you hoped they were. Foggy knew that.

Worse than all of the rest, though, was that Foggy couldn’t get ahold of Matt. He and Karen both called. Three, five, ten, twenty times. Voicemail, every time. No answering call. Nothing. Radio silence. And if… If Matt was… If he was hurt, or worse – Foggy couldn’t think of worse, couldn’t accept worse as an option – because of the man in the mask, the Devil… If Matt was hurt because Foggy was stupid and trusting and hadn’t turned in a dangerous vigilante to the cops when he’d had a chance, ten chances, twenty chances, _too many chances_ —

Foggy would never be able to live with himself.

“Please,” Foggy choked out, hands folded tightly although he wasn’t usually one for prayer. “Please, let Matt be ok.”

* * *

The door of Matt’s apartment clicked closed behind him. He slid the lock home with shaking hands. For five stumbling steps, he was able to hold himself together.

But then, finally in a place of safety, all of it caught up with him at once. Leaving Vladimir behind, knowing that no matter how horrible a man he’d been, Matt had still as good as left him for dead. The barking of police dogs, the crack of gunfire. His ears still ringing from the explosion. Fisk’s gravelly voice. Sirens, so many sirens. People across Hell’s Kitchen screaming and crying. Being unable to save even a single one of them. The terror of being trapped, caught like a rat in a maze – chased through his own city.

Matt dropped onto his couch, took one shuddering inhale. And then all of it was flooding out of him in silent, choking sobs. His nose ran, his eyes stung, and it was hard to breathe past the lump in his throat. Each strained breath was like shards of glass in his lungs. For almost an hour, he cried himself out, and after was so exhausted that all he wanted to do was fall into bed and never wake up again.

But Matt Murdock still had obligations. Still had people who would be looking for him. So Matt called in sick – left a message on the office phone, asked Karen and Foggy not to check on him – and collapsed on his bed. He alternately slept and moved about his apartment in a groggy fugue for two days.

When Matt finally woke enough to feel truly alive again, it was late. Too late for Matt Murdock to go out on the streets to check on his best friend. But Matt needed— He couldn’t go another moment without hearing Foggy’s heartbeat. Without knowing he was ok. So, even though he was still moving too gingerly to do any fighting, Matt donned his mask and raced across the rooftops to Foggy’s apartment.


	6. Devil Under Your Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy hooks up with the newly-dubbed Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

Foggy woke from a fitful doze in his armchair – he hadn’t meant to sleep, had meant to stay up, to distract himself, to…

He woke to the slide of a window opening in his apartment and straightened up with a start. The shadow crawling through the window was a familiar shape, and Foggy’s lungs froze with betrayal, with fear. He stumbled to his feet, fingers itching for the softball bat across the room. There was a soft tap of heavy boots on the floor. One step closer, two—

“Stay back!”

The masked man – the Devil – froze, hands up and palms out in a calming gesture.

“I won’t hurt you,” he insisted quietly.

“Did you blow up those buildings?” Foggy demanded, chest tight and voice hard. “Kill those cops?”

Though much of his face was hidden, the Devil’s mouth twisted in what could only be pain.

“No,” he said fervently. “No, I swear, I— I didn’t do any of it. I never would. _Please_ , I didn’t… I tried to _stop_ them, but I was… I was too late.”

He sounded— honest. Truthful. Whatever. Like he meant the words he was saying. But Foggy had met good liars before, and he knew his own biases well. They’d been friends, of a sort, and Foggy wanted to believe the best in the Devil just for that. But what was needed was cold hard fact.

“And those videos? The ones of you attacking police officers?” he demanded.

“They were going to kill me. They were— They work for the man who orchestrated the bombings. Please, Foggy, you have to— How, how could I even have set off four bombs simultaneously? On my own? That far apart?”

The words were urgent, emotional, but they clicked with the rational, problem-solving part of Foggy’s brain. And the Devil was right. One man, doing that alone? Unlikely at best. And the Devil worked alone. Always. None of the stories about him that Foggy had ever heard mentioned any sort of accomplice. Foggy didn’t even know if the guy had friends aside from himself and the mystery nurse.

It wasn’t ironclad proof. But it was a great big dose of reasonable doubt. The Devil’s story made a lot more sense than the media’s. So maybe… Maybe Karen had been right. And maybe Foggy hadn’t fucked up spectacularly by putting his trust in the shadow at his window. Maybe this was something he could keep. Paired with their weeks of nightly talks, Foggy was willing to give the Devil the benefit of the doubt. To take a little on faith.

“Ok,” he said at last. “I believe you.”

Tension fell away from the Devil’s shoulders immediately, like he’d dropped a hundred-pound weight. Then he took a cautious step forward. Reached out slowly with one hand and rubbed a gloved fingertip against Foggy’s shirt, right over his stitches, so lightly Foggy could hardly feel it.

“You were hurt,” the Devil murmured. “In the bombings?”

And yeah, that was definitely misplaced guilt in his voice, no doubt about it. Foggy had a lot of experience with that kind of tone from the other idiot in his life.

“Yeah, but— If. If you didn’t do it, it’s not your fault, man. It’s not on you, it’s on the people who actually did this. Who framed you.”

“I should have been there—”

“Seriously?” Foggy asked, shaking his head and smiling a little – how was it he kept falling in with righteous do-gooders who had overdeveloped guilt complexes? “The whole city was exploding and you should have been protecting a guy you barely know?”

The Devil shook his head sharply.

“I know you,” he insisted. “I. I care about you.”

He telegraphed his movements clearly as he lifted his hand from Foggy’s side to his face, stroked a thumb over his cheekbone. A little shiver worked its way down Foggy’s spine – the good kind. He felt—pinned, seen intimately, and had to close his eyes.

“I’m glad you’re ok,” Foggy admitted at last. “And I’m glad you didn’t… That you’re not the one who…”

“Yeah.”

Another sweep of a thumb. Another shudder.

“Did—did you know they’re calling you the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen now?” joked Foggy with a shaky laugh. “Not sure if that’s an upgrade or a downgrade.”

When he opened his eyes, the Devil just shrugged.

“They can call me what they want. I… I just need… As long as you believe in me, I don’t care.”

And then he tipped his masked face forward and pressed his lips – chapped and split but so gentle – to Foggy’s.

* * *

It hadn’t been his intention at all when he’d come to check on Foggy. To kiss him. But. But Foggy had been hurt, he’d… And he still believed in Matt— in the man in the mask. And Matt wanted, he _wanted_ …

Before he could even try to stop himself, their lips were brushing. And Foggy kissed back.

For two seconds, everything was perfect.

Then, he was shoved harshly backwards. Not expecting it, he stumbled slightly.

“Stop!” Foggy insisted breathlessly. “I can’t— I can’t do this.”

_You can_ , Matt thought, but didn’t say it for fear of pressuring Foggy. _You so can_.

“Is something wrong?” he asked instead, only barely remembering to lower the register of his voice.

“I just…” Foggy blew out a frustrated breath. “Look, I like you, man. And you’re hot – like, insanely hot. But. I don’t know, the way you’ve been talking it sounds like maybe you’re looking for something serious here and me going into it just looking for a good time isn’t fair to you.”

Matt’s heart sank a little. Still, his… His greed outweighed his disappointment. Maybe there weren’t strong romantic feelings on Foggy’s side – but that made sense. To him, they’d only met a few weeks ago. To him, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was little more than a stranger.

“It’s your choice,” he said quietly. “But you don’t have to worry about taking advantage of me. I’m a big, tough vigilante, remember? I can handle myself. If you want me, you should say yes.”

Foggy’s breathing changed, then. Matt could hear the quiet, wet noises as he moved his mouth silently, tried to find the words he wanted to say. Every inch of Matt’s skin prickled with anticipation as he waited for Foggy’s verdict. Whatever it was, he’d— He’d abide by it. But… Oh, if Foggy only said _yes_ …

“You know what,” Foggy said at last in a tone of thin humor that only barely coated the wavering honesty beneath it, “life is short. I totally could have bit it without checking ‘making out with a superhero’ off my bucket list. So… Yeah. Kiss me.”

Matt beamed.

* * *

“As you wish,” the Devil breathed coyly against Foggy’s lips, and kissed him again.

Where the first one had been shy, cautious, this kiss was warm and passionate and dizzying. Foggy may or may not have melted under the vigilante’s touch like a swooning heroine in a romance novel.

“That… That was terrible, I feel honor-bound to tell you that,” he insisted breathlessly the moment their lips parted.

“The kiss?” asked the Devil, skeptical.

“The Princess Bride reference, Dread Pirate Roberts. The kiss was hot, ten out of ten.”

Which was apparently some sort of ‘go’ signal, because the Devil stripped off his gloves and kicked off his boots immediately, then framed Foggy's face in his callused hands and dove in for another kiss. And another, and another, one right after the other so that there was hardly time to breathe. Because of that, it took Foggy almost a minute to realize the Devil's hands had moved away from his face and that he was being divested of his top.

“I’m— not usually a first date kind of guy,” he managed to say between kisses, not as a means to say ‘stop’ but just to defend his good name.

The Devil huffed out a laugh, deep and warm, and continued unbuttoning Foggy’s shirt with unfairly steady hands.

“I wouldn’t—” Apparently unable to resist, he pressed his mouth to Foggy’s again, quick and sweet. “Mm, I wouldn’t consider this a first date.”

“Saving me from nefarious forces is not a date,” Foggy reminded him. “And neither is hanging around on my fire escape like a stray cat.”

“Tap water buddies,” retorted the Devil as he unbuckled Foggy’s belt. “Your words, not mine.”

“That was _not_ intended as a euphemism,” Foggy protested on principle, but he stepped out of his slacks gamely when they were tugged down his legs and the laughter he was holding back was clear in his voice.

This was— probably a bad decision. But Foggy wasn’t an idiot, and as much as he hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself, this was absolutely part of the longing he’d felt when watching the Devil sit on his fire escape, too beautiful and wild to be real. Foggy had wanted to reach out and touch. To get closer, to make a claim on this man that belonged only to the city. It wasn’t love, he didn’t think, but it wasn’t like his crush on Karen either. Whatever the feelings Foggy had for the Devil really were, they were startlingly strong.

“Sure about that?” the vigilante teased, and, just to add insult to injury, palmed Foggy’s dick through his boxers. "Feels like a euphemism to me."

“Mmf— You…!”

Foggy gave up on mustering any indignation at the Devil’s nettling after the first word because it was more moan than anything even remotely disapproving and there was no way to pretend otherwise. As if he knew Foggy’s line of thoughts exactly, the Devil smirked.

And then he hitched Foggy up around his waist with a hand under each of his thighs like he weighed nothing at all, which was. Yeah, Foggy was very, very into that. Embarrassingly into that. He crossed his ankles behind the Devil’s back and clutched at his shoulders for a little extra stability, but most of his brain was a very turned on loop of _holy shit, holy shit, holy shit_. Which was before the Devil decided to use his new angle to pay more attention to Foggy’s neck.

* * *

It was a terrible idea, taking Foggy to bed. A truly, horribly terrible idea, no way it wouldn’t blow up in his face. But… Matt wanted it. He’d wanted it for _so long_. And Foggy wanted it too.

Plus, after all, it— It wasn’t like Matt hadn’t taken any precautions at all, right? Even though he couldn’t see it anymore he’d always known that posture, movement, body language, were one way people were able to identify each other. And the masked man moved nothing like Matt Murdock. He’d also bulked up a little bit since he’d started patrolling regularly, just because he was fighting so often. Foggy wouldn’t recognize his scars because the Matt he knew didn’t have them. And it was dark, the lights were off.

Everything would be fine.

Matt contented himself with that, flexing his fingers against Foggy’s thighs and relishing the feel of them in his hands – thick and smooth, heavy and warm, bare skin against skin. The catch in Foggy’s breath it caused would have been too soft for anyone but Matt to hear, and the thought of that made a possessive, knife-sharp grin flash across his face.

This was right. It was perfect.

No one else would be able to appreciate Foggy – sound, scent, taste, touch – quite as well as Matt could.

And speaking of taste…

The way Foggy’s pulse was pounding in his throat was alluring enough to make Matt bite his lip to hold back a whine. He could always hear Foggy’s heartbeat, of course. But to be able to press his mouth to the pulse point in Foggy’s throat, to feel that perfect, aroused rhythm against his lips, taste it on his tongue? It was… It… There just weren’t words. Matt kissed the salt from Foggy’s skin and set to marking it with hurried licks and bites, all the while taking careful steps towards the bedroom.

* * *

“I’ll be so good to you, Foggy,” promised the Devil fervently, breathlessly, pulling Foggy impossibly closer. “So careful. I’ll make it so good for you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, just— You’re,” Foggy gasped out as best he could. “Not gonna trip, are you? Do, do I need to turn on a light?”

“No lights,” the Devil insisted huskily, pressing more stubbly kisses into Foggy’s throat.

“Sure, I— Whatever you say, man.”

Foggy was down for pretty much anything, as long as the Devil kept touching him, and if his uncanny intuition worked on Foggy’s darkened apartment as well as it worked on dirtbag criminals, who was Foggy to distract him from what he was doing?

They made it to the bedroom without incident, and the Devil laid Foggy out on the bed slowly, like he was something precious. It was probably stupid to be so touched by that, but Foggy felt his eyes burn and threaten tears. _God, I’m getting sappy in my old age_ , he thought with a stupid smile as the Devil straddled his hips and leaned forward to kiss him again. 

Upon realizing that while he was practically naked, the man above him was still fully-clothed, Foggy shook his head and laughed.

“I’m not gonna be able to see them in high-def when it’s this dark, but it would be a literal crime if you didn’t let me get a look at your abs,” he insisted. “Shirt off, devil boy.”

“Sure thing,” the Devil replied, sitting back up to do it and probably-on-purpose shifting that perfect ass against Foggy’s dick.

_Tease_ , Foggy thought gleefully, and his judgment on the matter didn’t change when that form-fitting black shirt was stripped off slowly with a flex of, yup, impossibly shredded abs. Holy shit. Foggy’s hands were moving before his brain had completely comprehended what he was seeing in the low ambient light glowing through his bedroom window. At the first brush of fingertips over his stomach, the Devil shivered and moved his own hands to the button of his black cargo pants. Which was perfect, because Foggy had been about to suggest those get lost next.

But as he spread his palm further across the Devil’s chest, his haze of arousal dropped away. They were hard to make out in the darkness, but Foggy could feel every one under the pads of his fingers. Scars. So many scars, crisscrossing every way.

“Holy fuck, they’re… They’re everywhere,” Foggy murmured, tracing both hands slowly over every inch of bare skin he could reach and feeling his throat go tight with emotion.

“It’s.” The Devil clapped one of his own hands over Foggy’s. “I’m ok. I’m. Please don’t stop.”

And he sounded so desperate about it, hurt and worried. Foggy shook himself out of his fear, out of his own worries for the idiot vigilante clasping his hand. His heart still squeezed with what-ifs, with the possibility of the Devil having never returned after the explosions. Of him bleeding out somewhere, of no one knowing or caring.

Well, Foggy cared.

“Get down here, you idiot,” he breathed, tugging his vigilante down for another kiss and pouring everything into it, burning the horrifying could-have-beens out of his blood with every breath of air shared between them, every slick slide of tongue.

And as he did, Foggy scratched lightly at the nape of the Devil’s neck, then inched his hand upward to get rid of one more piece of superfluous cloth between them. Before his fingertips had more than brushed the knot at the back of the mask, a hand was circled around his wrist. Slowly but firmly, Foggy’s captured hand was pressed back down against the pillow above his head.

“Mask stays on,” the Devil insisted in a low growl.

“Kinky,” Foggy replied with a slightly breathy laugh.

The joke earned him another one of the Devil’s sharp, pretty smiles.

“Oh, absolutely.”

* * *

Matt’s whole world blurred and burned around him, hotter, headier, until everything outside Foggy’s apartment, everything outside _Foggy_ , fell away.

Matt had had sex before, obviously, and. And he’d liked it, it had felt good— hell, it had felt amazing. Some of his nights with Elektra had redefined euphoria for him, because he’d loved her, because it had been them together, because…

But with Foggy? After having _wanted_ , quietly, in the background, for so long? After spending all that time thinking it was an impossibility, something out of reach, and then against all odds actually getting to have him? It was like touching the heart of a star.

And oh god had Marci _not_ been lying about Foggy’s skill in the bedroom. That _mouth_ , Jesus. Which Matt had _known_ , in a nebulous ‘I can hear your heartbeat so I know you’re telling the truth’ kind of way, but. Knowing and experiencing were two _very_ different things. There was a distance to knowing, something discardable and academic about it. Sure, knowing had made Matt envious and twitchy and curious, but he was a disciplined person with a strong ability to repress.

Experiencing? Well. That came with a whole slew of physical reminders that no number of repetitions of ‘the mind controls the body’ could negate.

Matt’s thighs were still trembling a little. He could smell arousal, pheromones and sex all over himself and Foggy, so strong that there was no way to block it out; although, due to Foggy’s considerate nature and a warm washcloth, the two of them were thankfully no longer sticky. Matt’s heart was stuttering along at a ridiculous clip. The tips of his fingers and toes were still warm and tingling. His back was covered in a cooling sheen of sweat and for once it wasn’t distractingly itchy or annoying.

Also he was pretty sure he was never going to be able to hear Foggy say the word ‘please’ again without seriously embarrassing himself. So. That was… Something.

But even with the potentially awkward complications of having sex with your best friend as your alter ego bearing down on him, Matt couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Not with his possessive side all but purring in satisfaction after having to endure ten years full of prickly tension. Maybe it was a little— a little bit caveman to be so enamored with the idea that he’d finally been able to mark Foggy as his own, but Matt couldn’t help it.

The tiny flares of heat given off by the constellation of love bites Matt had left scattered across Foggy’s skin were almost enough to stir his libido again. _Just one more time_ , his brain coaxed guiltily. But that would mean having to wake Foggy up. Matt quashed the urge.

Instead, he trailed his fingers through long, sleek hair and basked in the solid warmth of Foggy next to him in the bed. He had to get up soon, to leave, but… The temptation to stay was unbearably strong. To tug off the mask, press his forehead to Foggy’s throat, and damn the consequences.

Matt was a good lawyer. Surely he could come up with a convincing reason to keep Foggy from tossing him out on his ass once he discovered the truth.

But no. That was hormone-addled wishful thinking. Matt needed to go, to get home so he could go to work and live the other half of his life. With a weary sigh, he lifted himself from the bed and pressed a kiss to Foggy’s temple. Then he slipped back into his clothes and left like he’d entered – silently, through the window.

Though he only got a precious few hours of sleep before he had to get up again, they were more restful than any Matt had gotten in weeks. He woke feeling fulfilled and happy and eager to get to the office.


	7. We're All Keeping Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy finds out that Matt apparently had a pretty good night too. Then shit gets real and Foggy joins Ben and Karen's investigation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys, I've been rereading episode transcripts and I am going to have to play sooooo fast and loose with the S1 canon timeline, so. Bear with me. We're gonna stretch things out a little, just to give the relationship stuff time to develop, because canon is like... Such a teeny tiny window of time to work with.
> 
> Also! Let me know now so I have time to plan; we've got a few options going forward. Do you guys:   
> A) Want me to save Ben or Elena or both? Considering some of the changes I'm already going to make, I'm pretty sure I could finagle it, especially Ben.  
> B) Want the story to go all the way through the end of S1, or end it earlier when Matt and Foggy get things resolved between them with like a "we'll stop Fisk together" kind of feeling?

Foggy woke up, alone, to the blaring of his alarm. But despite the rude awakening and the cold bed, he found himself… Wow, happy. Which wasn’t, you know, entirely unheard of, but ever since he and Matt had run off from well-paying job offers to go save Hell’s Kitchen, there had been an undercurrent of stress to Foggy’s life that he hadn’t quite been able to kick. And that had only been compounded by worrying about the idiot vigilante haunting his fire escape and worrying about Matt’s increase in clumsiness and worrying about all the terrifying shit that was going down in the city.

Speaking of terrifying shit going down in the city…

Foggy checked his stitches, which were definitely a little sore but certainly better than they had been when first put in. And, hey, despite all the crazy athletic sex Foggy’d had with his most limber partner besides that gymnast he’d dated once in law school, the Devil had kept his word. He’d been very gentle, gentle enough not to do any damage to the handiwork of the nice nurses at Metro Gen. So that was good at least.

With a careful stretch, Foggy rolled out of bed and tugged on some sweatpants and a t-shirt before heading out into his apartment proper. In the light of day, it really looked… Uh… Like… Well, something. His clothes were scattered across the living room floor like a tornado had gone through. Also, if the pleasant twinge of forming bruises were any indication he had about fifteen not-quite-hickeys he was going to need to hide from everyone ever. But wow had it been worth it, holy shit.

Still, Foggy maybe needed a lot of caffeine and a good twenty minutes to freak the fuck out that he’d had sex with a vigilante, whose name he didn’t know, whose face he’d never fully seen, and who was accused, even if falsely, of blowing up Hell’s Kitchen.

In general, Foggy liked to think of himself as a pretty normal guy. Your average joe. But there was not a single thing normal about what had happened the previous night – or at least who he’d done it with. So Foggy smacked his dilapidated coffeemaker to life and brewed some coffee and had his freakout. Then, once it was done, he took a shower and got to admire the Devil’s handiwork. The good news was that most of the love bites would be covered by his clothes. But by the shade they were turning, Foggy was certain they’d be sticking around for a while. He shook his head and sighed but couldn’t keep a smile off his face.

* * *

As was becoming the norm, Foggy was at work second – right after Karen, who he was beginning to worry still wasn’t regularly going home to her apartment to sleep, even after all this time. Maybe, he thought, he could get a nice-ish secondhand couch from one of his cousins just in case Karen felt more comfortable sleeping in the office than at home. At least then she’d have somewhere reliable to crash.

He’d already sent her out for coffee – she looked like she needed it, and he was craving a bear claw something fierce – when Matt walked in. Which was actually surprising, firstly considering Foggy hadn’t seen hide or hair of him since the explosion, and secondly  because he’d been lagging a little in the mornings, coming in later and later as the weeks wore on; not to the point of being a hindrance to business, necessarily, (well, what business?) but definitely not the expected level of punctuality from Matt ‘has to be ten minutes early to being ten minutes early’ Murdock.

But even better than the early start, in Foggy’s opinion, was the sudden uplift in mood. There was a slight bounce to Matt’s step, and the sated got-the-cream smile lifting the corners of his mouth was one Foggy knew very well from college. The patented Matt Murdock ‘just got laid’ grin.

“She was hot, wasn’t she,” Foggy sighed, smiling fondly and shaking his head.

He was sad, a little, in the way he always was when Matt hooked up with someone new. But it wasn’t like Foggy had any claim over him, and as long as Matt was happy that was all that mattered. Especially after the shit that had just gone down – when a lot of people had been injured or killed in the bombings, having a safe, unhurt, happy Matt was the best of all possible options. Plus. Well. Maybe Foggy was still a little dizzy and over the moon about his own amorous encounter the previous night. So sue him. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was a total babe.

Matt stumbled over his cane and turned towards Foggy, glasses slipping down his nose.

“Wh— Uh. Pardon?”

As if that was gonna work. Foggy laughed.

“Whichever of your many lady friends you slept with last night, dude,” he teased. “Was it Hottie McBurnerPhone? The one who called last week?”

Matt had tried to be discreet about his burner phone, but Foggy knew him _way_ too well to miss its clunky shape and lack of assistive capabilities. Foggy wasn’t sure exactly how many women were listed in its contacts, but there was one with a particular ringtone – a pretty-sounding harp strum – that had called at least twice. Hence, Hottie McBurnerPhone. Not that Foggy had any empirical proof she was hot, but she was one of Matt’s girls, so she had to be.

“I’m. I didn’t—” Matt tried to deny, twisting his cane in his hands. “What makes you think—”

“I know you’re already sans functional eyeballs so maybe you can’t tell, but your post-coital glow is _literally_ blinding, buddy. It could probably be seen from space.” And then, because he always did, because he didn’t want to throw off their script or let himself get melancholy, Foggy asked, “Well? What was she like?”

Caught, Matt pulled his usual shy routine – duck head, blush, smile in embarrassment – one-two-three like it was rehearsed for the camera. But then he finally ponied up and considered Foggy’s question a moment, pushing his glasses back up his nose. Right before answering, his mouth curled into a cocky smirk that set Foggy’s pulse racing.

“ _Enthusiastic_ ,” Matt said at last, his voice almost half an octave lower than usual.

A shiver worked its way down Foggy’s spine and he swallowed hard.

“Y-yeah?” he squeaked out.

“Mm,” agreed Matt, then turned and headed into his office with what could really only be described as a swagger.

_Well then_.

Foggy tried not to think about it. Really, he did. But, you know, his wires sort of got crossed, that was all. Thinking about his night with the Devil, wondering vaguely about Matt with his latest pretty girl… He just got a little, a bit muddled. Remembering the light scrape of teeth against his throat, callused hands on his thighs, he wondered how Matt would kiss. Soft and thorough? Or maybe rougher. Would he—

“Got you your bear cl— Foggy?”

Foggy blinked back to himself, shook his head.

“Um.” He stared up at her uncomprehendingly, and then noticed the pastry. “Right! Bear claw! Thank you, Karen, you’re a star.”

“Uh huh…” she replied slowly, squinting at him. “Are you ok, Foggy? You’re not running a fever, are you? Your face is a little red.”

“Fine! I’m fine! Everything’s fine!”

* * *

Unlike their first meeting, Foggy didn’t consider his hookup with Hell’s Kitchen’s resident vigilante a one-off. No, not when he could still hear the low rumble of _I know you, I care about you_ , playing in his head. But that didn’t stop the twinge of worry in his chest when a week went by without an appearance from the Devil. So Foggy channeled his worry into a more immediate target: Nelson and Murdock’s lone, increasingly shifty, employee.

Which was great, because she happened to get jumped by two really jacked whackjobs on her way home from Elena’s apartment, and Foggy had his softball bat handy and everything. Not that Karen wasn’t pretty deadly with her can of mace, but they were big guys and the bat was just right for the job. Foggy had a moment to wonder if associating with a vigilante had made him more violent, but eventually dismissed the thought.

_Self defense_ , his brain supplied cheerfully in the exact voice Matt always used when commenting on the minor misfortunes of someone who’d been an ableist dick to him. _Besides_ , Foggy told himself, shaking off the thought, _Karen’s the priority here_.

“You ok?” he asked her, a little breathless but more from panic than exertion.

Karen nodded, a bit shaky, and then her eyes narrowed at him. Yup, that suspicious look meant nothing good, at least for Foggy Nelson.

“Were you _following_ me?”

“Um.” Foggy cleared his throat and tugged at his collar a little. “Ok, look, the city just blew up like a week ago, Karen. I could definitely be having a worse response than a little, teeny bit of very, very light protective stalking. Also you’ve been very shifty, and—” He cut himself off before he could dig the hole deeper. “Ok, no, yeah, this was bad of me, regardless of the positive results. But I’m just… I’m worried about you.”

There was a quick, painful flash of surprise across her face – the kind of expression Matt had made a lot early in his friendship with Foggy, like it was an anomaly that someone worried about him. Foggy had the sudden, fierce urge to cover Karen in fuzzy blankets and hold her until she knew she was precious and wonderful and lovely.

“You… You don’t have to do that, you know,” she said, and her smile was pretty, but it was also fake. “I’m ok.”

“You’re obviously not if people are still trying to assassinate you. I thought that was your whole plan with—” Foggy swallowed hard. “Uh, with the guy in the mask. That if all that Union Allied stuff got plastered everywhere, you’d be safe.”

Karen tugged her coat tighter around herself and nodded.

“Uh. Yeah,” she agreed uncomfortably. “And it would probably have worked. If I hadn’t kept digging.”

Which prompted an _entirely justified_ meltdown on Foggy’s part. Which led to Karen dragging him to The Bulletin, the paper that had published the Union Allied story in the first place, and to Ben Urich. Who was suitably unimpressed with both Karen spilling about their secret investigation and with Foggy himself. Which, ok, fair.

“What part of ‘don’t tell anyone about this’ didn’t you understand?” Ben demanded.

Karen looked cowed for half a second, but then her steel spine reasserted itself.

“You couldn’t ask for a better ally in this,” she insisted firmly. “Foggy’s not just anyone. He’s a kick-ass lawyer, and we’re going to need one of those before this is over.” And then she grinned over at Foggy, nudged his shoulder with hers. “And he just plain kicks ass.”

“When the need arises,” Foggy added magnanimously.

Ben rolled his eyes at them both, but Foggy thought his aura seemed at least a tiny bit fond. Foggy was very good at picking out reluctantly-fond auras and Ben Urich was definitely giving off that vibe, even if he tried to hide it.

“Besides, he…” Karen lowered her voice, took a step closer to Ben. “He took my case, Ben. You can trust him.”

Ben caved then, looking at Karen the way Foggy imagined that he himself had looked at her only fifteen minutes before – like he wanted to erase every evil thing that had hurt her. Yeah, Foggy thought. Ben was a good guy.

Then the two of them showed him their board, a map of connections in an ugly, corrupt pyramid made of newspaper clippings and marked-up playing cards, all capped by the King of Diamonds. _The man at the top_ , Ben called him. Nameless, faceless, and scary as hell. Chinese heroin dealers, the Russian Bratva that Nadia had mentioned the Devil tangling with, a possible faction of Yakuza, and Union Allied – all of them working for this one person? Foggy remembered the Devil telling him that he thought someone had paid the arsonist to torch Tani’s shop and shivered. One man, alone, against something so far-reaching…?

No. No, he wasn’t alone, not really. Not if Ben and Karen were on the case. Not if Foggy helped.

“There’s another player on the field,” Ben added, drawing Foggy’s attention to another playing card pinned near the top of the board.

The Jack of Hearts, with a black mask scribbled over the top face. Foggy’s own heart squeezed just looking at it.

“The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen,” he said at last. “That guy in the mask. They’re saying he’s the one who blew up those buildings.”

“Foggy!” Karen snapped, clearly stung. “He didn’t—”

“I know he didn’t do it,” Foggy interrupted quietly, tracing his index finger across the card-Devil and his sharpie mask. “I, um. He…” It was something he’d held in at the office, listening quietly to Karen’s rants on the Devil’s behalf but too afraid of giving something away to agree with her. “He tried to stop the bombs. If this man at the top is the one blowing up the city, then he’s the man in the mask’s enemy too.”

“It makes sense,” Ben agreed, his gaze a little too keen from behind his glasses. “But how are you so certain?”

Foggy stared up at the cards pinned to the corkboard instead of at Karen and Ben waiting intently for his answer.

"Foggy...?" Karen pressed.

A phantom sensation of gloved fingers ghosting over his skin hit him hard. Then he shook his head and smiled brightly.

“Come on, Karen, don’t you know me well enough by now? I’m completely irresistible. I’ve got like ten vigilantes vying for my affections at all times, and I’m sorry to have to tell you but your masked man is no exception.”

* * *

Two nights later, the Devil climbed through Foggy’s window again. Instead of saying hello, he cupped Foggy’s face in his hands and kissed him – hot and fiery and trembling. When he pulled away, he didn’t go far; he rested his forehead, still covered with black fabric, against Foggy’s. The way he was breathing, shaky and overwhelmed, told Foggy that the Devil probably wasn’t up to speaking. Which was fine. Foggy was old hat at carrying a conversation.

“Knew you’d be back,” he teased, combing his fingers through the strands of hair at the nape of the Devil’s neck. “Once you go Nelson, you never go back.”

It pulled a thready chuckle from the Devil’s mouth and earned them both another kiss. Slower, more careful.

“God I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” It would have been so easy to leave it at that, to pretend the world outside didn’t exist for a while, to press in for another kiss. “There’s… Something you have to know.”

Foggy laid it all out, the tangled web Ben and Karen were piecing together, the men who had come after Karen.

“Foggy—”

“I’m going to help them,” he said forcefully before he had to hear what an idiot he was being. “I’m going to help _you_. This is my city, too, you know. Gotta stand up for it.”

The Devil shook his head, but the only rebuttal he offered was another searing kiss. After that they were both too busy stumbling towards the bedroom again to argue.


	8. Sticks and Stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stick shows up. Matt seeks comfort from the person who seems to fix everything else in his life. A couple of dorky avocados are actually happy for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the holiday season, I give you Stick being a fucking asshole, but I also give you some more fade-to-black almost-porn and Claire's first appearance in this fic, so you should definitely forgive me. You still have a chapter or two before everything starts to go sideways for the boys, so enjoy it!
> 
> There's quite a few little time skips in this one, so fingers crossed they don't get too confusing!

Matt stayed away for a while, when the flood of guilt finally burned through his lovesick satisfaction and overtook him. Sleeping with Foggy had been perfect and wonderful, but it wasn’t… Being with the man in the mask wasn’t safe for Foggy. Getting more involved wasn’t safe. And Matt couldn’t bring himself to go over to visit him, not when he knew he’d fall into the same pattern he always had – letting Foggy past every defense without question. But Matt used that time to locate and trail Leland Owlsley – so at least it was well-spent.

And then Stick came back.

At the most characteristically inopportune moment, of course. Even twenty years later, the tap of Stick’s cane on concrete made Matt’s spine go rigid, made all his senses focus on the most dangerous person in the room. Which left him too distracted to sense the taser in Owlsley’s hand.

Matt went down hard, electricity coursing through every nerve. And Owlsley even had the nerve to kick him in the ribs before driving away. Lovely. Because that was exactly how Matt had wanted the confrontation to go. He groaned in frustration, letting his head fall back against the cold floor of the parking garage.

“You just gonna lie there all night?” Stick sneered at Matt, then, like that was any way to greet someone you just got tased, let alone someone you’d mentored and then abandoned twenty years ago.

Stick’s voice, his heartbeat, the tap of his cane… It was all the same. Like being tossed back in time. Hearing them all again with pain crackling through his body was horribly fitting. Matt stumbled to his feet through sheer spite.

“What are you _doing_ here?” he demanded.

“Invite me back to your place, kid. Maybe I’ll tell you.”

* * *

The walk back home was excruciating. Every movement Stick made set Matt’s teeth on edge, and he didn’t stop picking at Matt for a single moment.

“Should wash that Halloween costume of yours. It smells like sex.”

“Stop it,” Matt hissed at him.

“If you’d washed it better maybe I would,” came the scathing reply. “It’s not like you’ve been spending your time doing anything useful, like keeping up your training.”

By the time Matt was opening the roof access door, he was so keyed up that he practically slammed it into the wall. He stormed down the stairs, pace quickened by the instinctive discomfort of having Stick at his back, of leaving himself open to attack.

“So you got laid,” Stick said plainly, taking a whiff of the air, “but not here. Got those fancy little silk sheets and you’re not even using them, huh.”

The prickle of embarrassment, shame, fear that ran over Matt’s skin just made him angrier.

“Fuck off.”

“Oh please,” Stick spat, “tell me you’re not climbing through some woman’s window to fuck her in that ridiculous getup. Play-fighting idiot mobsters when there’s a real war out there is bad enough.”

“I’m not,” Matt snapped right back, leaning hard on the technical truth of the statement to keep his heart steady – he didn’t want Stick anywhere near Foggy, not ever.

“You’re still a shit liar, Matty.”

“I’m not lying! There is no woman.”

But all that bought him was a scoff. Stick dropped onto the couch. Matt just stood, knowing he was too tense, that Stick would be able to sense it, but unable to force himself to relax. He tugged off his mask and twisted it in his hands, anxious and angry and twitchy.

“So you’re a fucking fairy, then,” Stick muttered. “Should have figured. Jesus.”

“Not that it’s even any of your business, but why would you care anyway?” seethed Matt.

“I _don’t_. Good for you. Found yourself a fucking boyfriend to go with your half-baked street fighting and your pointless career.”

Every word hit like the crack of wood on bone, but Matt sucked in a breath through his teeth and let his mind settle. No matter how important Stick had been to him as a kid, Matt had moved past it. He didn’t need Stick’s approval – he already knew his life, the one he’d built for himself, under his own power, was worth something. It was a good life, one where he could help people from both sides of the law, one with people who genuinely cared about him, whose opinions mattered a hell of a lot more than Stick’s.

“This is my life, and I don’t have to justify it to you, Stick. Just because you don’t understand doesn’t mean it’s not worth anything,” he said, as sharply and evenly as he could manage with his heart pounding like a war drum between them. “So just say what you came here to say or leave.”

“Alright, how about this: I know what’s going on down at the docks. Unlike some people I can actually perform an interrogation instead of getting my ass handed to me by some geriatric accountant.”

Matt was able to shake off the insult easily with the promise of information he needed. Stick could needle all he wanted. All Matt cared about was protecting Hell’s Kitchen.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

Instead, Stick tapped his way over to the fridge and pulled out a beer.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Matty.”

With a clank, he knocked the cap off the bottle using the counter. Matt cringed a little, and then cringed again for having shown any sort of reaction where Stick could pick up on it. To cover his gaffe, he marched over to the fridge himself and got a beer of his own.

“I see you still think manners are beneath you,” Matt sniped, because if they were to the point of taking cheap shots he might as well be petty.

Stick took a long pull, made a dissatisfied noise at the taste, and kept drinking anyway.

“I see you drink shit beer,” he replied. “Sit down before you hurt yourself, kid.”

Matt did not sit down. Just tightened his grip around his beer bottle and squared his shoulders.

“Just tell me what they’re doing at the docks.”

And, finally, Stick did. He talked about one of the groups working with Fisk, led by a man named Nobu. About how Nobu and his men were bringing a weapon, a powerful one they called a Black Sky, into the city at the docks.

How he knew about Fisk, about all of it, Matt had no idea. And Stick refused to answer, except in more insults to Matt’s character and ability. Still, he’d approached Matt for a reason and they both knew it. Stick could have gone to the docks alone, instead of showing up in that parking garage – but he didn’t.

“You want my help,” Matt cut in at last, when both their beers were empty.

There was a soft shuffle of fabric as Stick shrugged.

“You work with me on this, Matty,” he said, “you help me destroy the Black Sky? Fisk is gonna piss himself when he has to fight you. Nobu scares the shit out of him, I can guarantee you that, and if you’re willing to go up against _him_ , well… I’m sure you can imagine.”

Matt could. It was a tempting offer. Since the beginning, Matt had never had anyone else fighting at his side. Never had anyone to watch his back. And for the most part he was fine with that. But… With as dangerous as the Black Sky apparently was, wouldn’t it be better to have backup?

“One rule,” Matt said, because there was one thing he wouldn’t budge on. “You want me with you? Then you don’t kill anybody.”

“You’re gonna have to get over those chickenshit half-measures by the time you take your fight to Fisk, if you want to win,” scoffed Stick. “But, fine. I’ll humor you, Matty – I promise I won’t kill anybody.”

Stick’s heart was as steady as his voice. Matt didn’t trust him, couldn’t trust him, but… Whatever weapon that was being brought into Matt’s city, he needed to stop it. He didn’t have to like Stick to work with him. He didn’t even have to trust him – Stick’s heart was steady, he was telling the truth.

Everything would be fine.

* * *

He should have known better. He should have _known_. Stick was the only one, even after so long, that Matt could never read a lie on. Mostly because he seemed to believe whatever lies he told. To him, the boy Nobu and his men had been trafficking wasn’t a person – and in Stick’s mind that meant he hadn’t killed anyone, just like he promised Matt. Always heartless, clear-cut justifications.

But where did that leave everyone else? Where did it leave Matt, and the boy?

Well, Matt knew. It left Matt alone and shaking and it left the boy dead. A _child_ was _dead_ because Matt hadn’t been able to stop Stick. Had never been able to stop Stick, not at eleven and not at thirty. He’d been used and tossed aside again. Even after twenty years, after Matt had tried to take every precaution he could to prevent things from going murderous and awry… He’d still been just a weak, useless kid, unable to save anyone, even himself.

All he had to show for himself was a ruined apartment, a well of nausea churning in his stomach, and a bruise forming on his face.

“Jesus, Matty,” Stick had said before he left, his voice awash with disgust, disappointment. “That thing wasn’t a kid. It wasn’t even human, and if you weren’t so damn emotional you would have sensed it too. You let shit like that get to you and you’re nothing but dead weight.”

Dead weight. He felt like it. Like his boots were made of lead, like he couldn’t even lift a finger. And yet, even then, there was still a small part of him, buried deep and twisted and bent and _weak_ , that had wanted Stick’s approval. That had hoped for… Something. Anything. Any acknowledgement.

But he knew that was never going to happen. Stick had manipulated him again, twisted Matt to his own purposes and ditched him the second he wasn’t useful anymore. The paper bracelet left behind, a perfect replica of that one twenty years ago, was just one last kick in the balls.

Matt picked it up in shaky hands, crushed it between his fingers. But he couldn’t make himself throw it in the garbage. With a shout, Matt snapped his fist into the wall. The pain centered him, but it didn’t make the situation any less unbearable. Everything was— too close, too much. Matt was sweating and shaking, and he just needed. He needed out.

Tossing the mangled paper bracelet aside, Matt slammed up the stairs to the roof access and the cold night air.

* * *

He was at Foggy’s window almost before he realized where he was gravitating – but after all, what was more natural? Ever since they’d known one another, Foggy had always pieced Matt back together when he was falling apart. Gently, with care, because Foggy cared so much about everyone and everything and showed it with his whole being.

And with Foggy there and breathing and just— beautiful to every sense Matt had left, what else could Matt do but kiss him? To try and drink some of the comfort and perfection from his lips. A calm sea after the roiling, unsettling thing Stick had turned Matt’s world into just by passing through. He shook, pressed his forehead to Foggy’s and tried to even out his breathing, tried to push back the overwhelmed flood of tears building behind his eyes.

There was a hitch in Foggy’s breath, hesitation, and then thick fingers rubbing at the back of Matt’s neck, brushing over the strands of hair poking out from under the fabric of his mask.

“Knew you’d be back. Once you go Nelson, you never go back,” Foggy told Matt, light and warm and not mentioning the fact that his visitor was clearly emotionally unbalanced.

It was Foggy, breaking the ice like he always did, and Matt loved him for it. A weak laugh leapt from his mouth and it was like suddenly, suddenly Matt could breathe again. He eased a gloved palm up to cup Foggy’s cheek and leaned in again – kissed him slower, savored it. Coffee, a splash of whiskey, toothpaste, Foggy.

“God I missed you,” Matt breathed, so relieved that it ached.

“I missed you too,” said Foggy; and then there was a sudden, off-rhythm beat of his heart. “There’s… Something you have to know.”

Matt suppressed a shudder. He swallowed thickly.

“What?”

“It’s… You know the guy who printed the article about all that stuff you and Karen found? Ben Urich.” At Matt’s nod, Foggy continued. “Well, he’s kind of an expert at digging up stuff like this and… Karen’s been helping him. They’ve got this whole board laid out with yarn, some serious Beautiful Mind shit. They think there's one guy at the top, that he’s got control of all this stuff – Union Allied, those Russian mobsters that blew up, some heroin dealers, maybe even the Yakuza. I just found out a couple days ago, but I agreed to help them because—” Foggy took a shaky breath. “Because if you keep coming back to me, I can tell you anything we find.”

Matt pulled away, tried hard not to shout or hyperventilate, and wasn’t sure how successful he was going to be. He’d known Karen was getting up to something, but he’d never imagined she’d be going straight for the most dangerous part of the whole ugly web of corruption. Or that steady, practical Foggy would follow her lead. Whatever balance kissing Foggy had afforded Matt was stripped away in an instant at the thought of what could happen to any of them – Ben, Karen, and Foggy – if Fisk or the people he was working with decided their poking around was becoming a problem.

“Foggy—”

But Foggy interrupted, hard and serious.

“I’m going to help them. I’m going to help _you_. This is my city too, you know. Gotta stand up for it.”

The worst part of it was that it was exactly how Matt felt. Hell’s Kitchen was his home, New York was his city, and he had to protect it however he could. Hearing those words out of Foggy’s mouth, the understated bravery of them, lit a fire in him deep enough and hot enough to burn away the chill of terror. He shook his head, tried to come up with an argument, something to persuade Foggy to stay safe—

But his rational mind was shot to hell and all he wanted was to get Foggy closer. As close as possible. Matt grabbed him and kissed him again. Hurried them towards the bedroom while trying to tug off Foggy’s worn t-shirt and untie his pajama pants at the same time. He needed to feel Foggy’s skin on his, as much of it as he could.

“Hey,” Foggy soothed between kisses, petting one hand down Matt’s back in slow, soothing motions. “Shhh, hey, come on. It’s ok.”

“It’s not,” Matt told him roughly, biting a mark into his neck. “It’s, I need… I need…”

“Anything you want,” Foggy promised, low and warm as he hitched Matt closer to him. “But on the bed, ok? Not all of us have superhuman stamina, Devil boy.”

Matt nodded shakily. He let Foggy go, let him finish getting undressed – listened to the soft pooling of fabric on the floor even as he tugged his own shirt over his head, kicked off his boots and unzipped his pants.

“Well, now I’ve got proof that I didn’t just imagine those biceps last time,” Foggy joked as he settled on top of the sheets.

Matt appreciated the banter, really, he did. He just didn’t have the patience for it at the moment. Instead, he shot Foggy a hungry smirk and climbed onto the bed himself. Ignoring the taste of cloth and blood, he took off his gloves with his teeth just to hear the way it made Foggy’s heart pound. Then he slid a palm up Foggy’s thigh, slowly, slowly. Leaned down and followed his hand with his mouth.

“Tease,” Foggy gasped when Matt paused to carefully, leisurely bite a mark into the softest part of his inner thigh.

“You already knew that,” Matt retorted against the bruise-warm skin, feeling jittery and daring with his mask covering his face. “Gonna be patient and let me suck your dick or what?”

“Jesus _Christ_ — Yeah, fuck, yeah, go for it,” wheezed Foggy, reaching down to cup a hand behind Matt’s neck. “Y-you know, in your own time.”

Matt grinned.

* * *

Even though his body was loose and relaxed when they were done, thrumming with pleasant chemicals, Matt’s mind was still whirling and tense. He rolled over onto his side to try and get comfortable but couldn’t. There was so much still to do, so much to—

Besides, Foggy was asleep, and Matt… Matt had to leave.

He sighed and hauled himself to his feet. Gathered his clothes just like he’d done last time, dressed again slowly.

“Don’t go.”

Matt started and paused, his hand on the bedroom’s windowsill. He could hear Foggy’s heart stumbling nervously in his chest, could hear the way his fingers rubbed at the bedsheets.

“I can’t stay,” he reminded Foggy as gently as he could.

“Just a little longer,” pressed Foggy, sitting up. “You seemed… I don’t know, troubled.”

He was troubled. By Stick, by Nobu and his men, by the death of the boy, by Foggy’s sudden eagerness to put himself in the crossfire. Everything, all at once, bearing down on him like a weight.

“I can’t—”

“It doesn’t have to be all night. I… I’m scared too, you know. So just stay, just for a little bit. Tell me about the city,” Foggy requested at last. “Please?”

Matt let the frustration, the fear, drip out of him and turned away from the window. He settled thigh to thigh with Foggy on the bed.

“There’s a girl on the third floor,” he began in the soft, low tone he remembered his father using for bedtime stories. “Same side of the building as you. Do you know her?”

Foggy knew everyone.

“Yeah, Jenny Cato. What about her?”

Matt gave in, settled in, and rested his head on Foggy’s shoulder. A warm arm slipped around his waist.

“She just got a pen pal from Taiwan last month,” he murmured, “and she’s hiding under her covers with a flashlight right now to compose him another letter. She’s dictating it under her breath, and she’s using a cheap Bic pen. She has to keep scribbling in the margins to get the ink to run again.”

Matt kept talking until his voice was hoarse, until Foggy’s body went sleep-heavy and pliant. Then he laid him back on the bed, tucked him in, and lingered just a moment at the window to listen to him breathe.

“Sweet dreams, Fog.”

And then he was out the window and back into the night, warmth glowing like a beacon in his chest.

* * *

The next morning was a lesson in patience for Matt – he could hear Foggy and Karen having a whispered argument about whether to bring him into the loop about their moonlighting as investigative reporters and had to pretend he didn’t. It continued, on and off, for a day and a half before a decision was reached. So Foggy wasn’t as forthcoming with Matt as he had been with the masked man, and that ached a little, but in the scheme of things at least it hadn’t taken long for him to fess up. Matt knew it was hypocritical to want to be included in everything when he was still keeping so many secrets of his own, but he couldn’t change how he felt. Being informed both as Matt and the masked man would make it easier for him to protect his friends.

Foggy was just as adamant about working to stop the kingpin trying to destroy their city in the light of day as he had been in the dark with the Devil. And Matt knew what it was like to want to help, but he also knew that Foggy wasn’t a fighter, not with his fists. So he steered Foggy and Karen both towards legal recourse, towards papers that could be sifted through and records that could be checked.

“Plus,” Matt added enticingly, slinging an arm around Foggy’s shoulders, “think of all the money we’ll make if we can link this kingpin’s criminal empire to our tenancy case for Mrs. Cardenas.”

Foggy laughed.

“Murdock, you sly dog! Always working an angle.”

“Learned it from you, buddy,” Matt replied airily, just to hear Foggy’s laugh again.

“I take it as a compliment,” insisted Foggy. “Good to know I’m finally rubbing off on you.”

_In more ways than one_ , Matt’s mind supplied instantly. And as stupid as the pun was, it sent a pulse of arousal through his blood. But at least he had enough sense to bite the quip back instead of outing himself as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen in literally the dumbest way possible. To distract himself from his mind’s inappropriate impulses, he poured a cup of coffee and practically scalded his tongue trying to drink it too fast.

* * *

“Are you my boyfriend?” Foggy wondered out of the blue one night, which— which just about killed Matt where he stood.

He had to take a moment to very thoroughly exorcise any pathetic breathlessness from his voice, because the desire to gasp out a _yes_ was overwhelming.

“If you,” he stammered instead, wincing at the familiar, recognizable cadence. “If you want me to be.”

“I do.”

There wasn’t a single ounce of uncertainty in Foggy’s tone, and Matt basked in it. Pulled him closer and kissed him like he could taste the words off his lips.

* * *

“What is it?” Claire asked him the very next day while sewing him up.

“What is… What?” wondered Matt.

It had been a rough night for fighting, but Matt had had worse. A lot worse. He’d just need to be careful not to let Foggy touch his right side at work – which meant being extra vigilant at dodging shoulder pats. It also probably meant no sex, which was a little disappointing, but Matt could deal with that.

“You seem less…” Claire waved her free hand in a gesture too subtle to fully make out. “I don’t know. Broody. Unbearably tragic.”

Matt mustered all the sarcasm he could into his tone.

“ _Thanks_.”

“Pretend all you want, I can see that smile on your face,” she retorted, continuing to stitch the gash in his shoulder closed. “It’s new.”

And, well, she was right.

“Yeah, I guess it is,” Matt agreed.

Claire didn’t pry, and Matt didn’t offer any details. He trusted her, a lot, more than almost anyone, but… Part of him just wanted to keep Foggy for himself, a secret that was his alone. Talking about him, even to Claire, was just… It was too much like having to share Foggy, the way he already did with what seemed like everyone in the city. Foggy was so bright and friendly, knew so many people… For once, it was nice to be able to withhold him, even in a small and ultimately pointless way.

“I’m glad that you have something good in your life now,” Claire said as she peeled her gloves off. “Maybe it’ll make you more careful.”

She stroked a hand over his cheek lightly and sighed with the sort of frustrated fondness Matt was apparently very good at fostering in the people who knew him. Her breath smelled like coffee and mint gum. Matt put on his best innocent face.

“I’m always careful.”

“Uh huh. Maybe try telling me that on a night when I don’t have to sew you closed, Saint Matthew.”

* * *

Another night, another fight in the war Matt was waging against Fisk, another moment of rest in Foggy’s bed. Matt knew he shouldn’t have gotten so comfortable with it, that it shouldn’t have become a part of his routine, but… Sometimes, besides Claire’s gentle fingers on his skin, it was the only kind touch Matt got after dark. He… He needed it.

And it wasn’t… It wasn’t about sex. Really. The sex was good – _great, mind-blowing, sonnet-worthy_ – but some nights saw Matt and Foggy simply curled up together under the sheets and that was just as good. Being held like something precious, being wanted and safe and not alone.

“Tell me about the city,” Foggy murmured sleepily, like he always did, and pressed a lazy kiss to Matt’s jaw.

So Matt did. It was one of the things he liked best, during their quiet nights in bed. Telling Foggy about the city was almost like telling him the truth, and it was so, so freeing. To be able to tell Foggy the things he could sense, the things he knew, and have him reply with awe and wonder and happiness instead of fear or disgust… It was better than any feeling Matt could imagine.

_I love you_ , he wanted to say, but he held it in. The feeling was true, and long-standing, but— Matt wasn’t with Foggy as himself. And it would be too soon for anyone to say something like that, having only known each other for the length of time Foggy had known Matt’s alter ego. Still, he thought it as hard as he could, even as he let himself ramble about the night breeze and the jangle of keys from across the street. Tried to infuse every word with the feeling.

_I love you. I love you. I love you._


	9. How To Be a Good Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy and Karen have a chat about sexuality, Foggy walks a friend home, and the Devil introduces his nurse friend and his boyfriend. The coalition to stop the kingpin takes one step forward and two steps back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit you guys. This chapter is 6400 words exactly. So, uhhhh... Enjoy it, I guess?

“You’ve been having an exceptionally good week,” Karen said leadingly, handing Foggy a cup of coffee as he walked in the door.

She almost never did that, though Foggy tended to roll in at around the same time every morning. Which meant Karen had been waiting to ambush him with her questions. Very clever, Foggy thought to himself, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the blue mug in his hand. It was the one that Karen tended to snag for her own use.

“What makes you say that?” he asked lightly.

Karen’s patented unimpressed look made a brief appearance, and Foggy took a chance to sip at the battery acid— er, coffee, she’d given him.

“You’ve come in whistling the last three days,” she pointed out. “And you left Josie’s early last night. So…? Did you perhaps have a _late-night visitor_?”

“Maybe…” wheedled Foggy, taking another delicate sip of the decidedly indelicate brew in his mug.

The Devil had stopped by. It had been a very nice night.

“Marci?” Karen wondered with a sly grin. “Are you fraternizing with the enemy, Mr. Nelson?”

Foggy just laughed.

“No, not Marci. I’ve kind of been… Seeing a guy? Kind of.”

Though he’d steeled himself the second the words came out of his mouth, it was still a little disheartening to see Karen’s jolt of surprise.

“Oh! A… You joked about... But I didn’t know you were actually…”

“Bisexual,” he finished for her, mustering a bright smile. “Out and proud for over a decade!”

“That’s great, Foggy,” she replied, quiet and earnest, clutching her hands together. “… I. I’m.” Karen swallowed, squeezed her eyes shut. “Me too. I’m bi, I mean. But not…”

Ah. So that’s how it was.

“Out,” Foggy finished, and his heart ached to see the way she struggled to speak. “That’s fine, Karen, I mean, I’m— Just because I am, you don’t have to feel like you need to tell me, or anyone, anything. You don’t owe anyone this, you know that, right?”

Karen shot him a smile, but it looked more like one of Matt’s fake shattered-glass smiles than a real one.

“No, I know. But you’re my friend, and I want to,” she insisted. “It’s just hard. After so long not telling people, and… It’s all… Tangled up in other things.”

Of course Foggy, who spoke fluent Matt Murdock, figured he knew what Karen meant by that. Whatever the other things were, they were probably horrible and traumatic and there was no way in hell she was going to talk about them. Slowly, Foggy set his coffee on Karen’s desk and reached out to take one of her hands in his – gave it a gentle squeeze, ran his thumb over her knuckles.

“Hey. Whatever it is, that’s fine,” he promised.

“It’s probably the least fine thing I can think of,” replied Karen, and her breath hitched tellingly. “Just, I… There’s just _so much shit_ , Foggy, and I can’t… I can’t even think about kissing a pretty girl without all the rest of it flooding in.”

_Oh, Jesus_ , Foggy thought as Karen’s hand trembled in his grip. _I really put my foot in it_. He opened his arms, silently offered a hug, and Karen darted into his embrace. Then Foggy just held her tight, rocking back and forth a little in a way that had always soothed his crying cousins. There was no wetness at his collar even when Karen buried her face in his shoulder, so Foggy was pretty sure she wasn’t crying – he hadn’t seen her cry since the first time they’d met, and he wondered if two near-deaths in a row had wrung all of her tears out of her.

“Hey,” he murmured, still rocking them both. “It’s ok, just let it out.”

It was just nonsense words, just something to say to try and comfort her, but Karen began to speak anyway. Like maybe it was safer for her to say it when he couldn’t see her face. She told Foggy about the drugs and the drinking, about kissing girls with an audience, the cheering, the unreality of it. About the way her dad looked at her when he realized. About the fact that she’d never had the courage to tell her mother before she died.

There were gaps, to Karen’s stories. Something big she was leaving out, holding back. But Foggy just nodded and listened and rubbed her back. Finally, Karen trailed off. She moved to break the embrace, and Foggy released her immediately.

“We… Kinda got off-topic,” Karen said at last with a wet little laugh, scrubbing at her dry but blotchy face with the heel of her hand. “What, um. Tell me more about this guy you’re dating.”

It was an obvious distraction, and Foggy took the out immediately. The atmosphere was heavy, and he needed to lighten it for both their sakes. Ironically, considering his moniker, the Devil could absolutely do that.

“It’s… The whole thing is kinda unconventional, but I really, really like him,” Foggy admitted, and couldn’t help the doofy grin that spread across his face.

There was a lot he had to edit out to keep the identity of his new boyfriend secret, but there was also enough to gush about to have them both laughing by the time that Matt made it to the office. And that was really all that mattered.

* * *

The streets weren’t safe. Foggy knew that. They never had been completely safe, except in that brief moment of gentrification before the aliens had demolished Hell’s Kitchen. They were even less safe after having been blown up by mobsters. But… Well…

A poor, almost-clientless defense attorney wasn’t much of a target for anybody.

And in general, it wasn’t like he spent much time out on the streets after dark anyway, but he’d been trained by his mother to always look after a friend in distress. Tani was absolutely in distress – of the severely drunken variety. Thankfully, she had enough sense of mind to call Foggy up and ask for an escort home instead of trying to brave the streets alone.

“It’s still my shop, it’s still,” she slurred, leaning heavily on Foggy and proving herself entirely too sloshed to risk a cab by swaying to the side to puke on the sidewalk. “They can burn it down but it’s still my land!”

Foggy winced and hauled an arm around her to keep her from collapsing in the mess.

“Come on, T,” he soothed. “We need to get you home and get some water in you. How much did you drink?”

He knew she hadn’t been dealing with the arson well, but he’d never guessed it was so bad. Guilt churned in Foggy’s gut. He hoped Roy was at home, but the fact that Tani had called Foggy instead meant that wasn’t very likely. God only knew what he was doing. Roy was a good guy, a smart guy, but if he was as broken up as Tani was over the loss of their sub shop and the resulting financial problems it had caused them…

“All the beers,” Tani mumbled nonsensically, but her footing was a little surer so Foggy tried not to worry – tried being the operative word.

It took them upwards of twenty minutes to make it back to Tani and Roy’s apartment. As Foggy feared, it was empty. He busied himself by getting Tani to drink some water, and when she showed no further signs that vomiting was imminent, he herded her into bed.

“Hey,” he said quietly, brushing a few strands of sweaty hair out of Tani’s face. “Do you know where Roy is?”

Tani gave a wobbly nod.

“’s down at the docks,” she answered as she snuggled deeper into her pillow. “Fishing. Stupid asshole. Never… Never fished in his fucking life.”

There were definitely worse reactions to losing your livelihood than trying to learn how to fish, Foggy supposed. But not at two in the morning.

“I’ll go get him,” Foggy promised.

On a weekend, he’d be willing to stay up all night himself to make sure Tani was ok and leave Roy to his bizarre coping methods, but it was a Tuesday and Foggy really needed to be, like, awake in the morning so that their law firm had some functional lawyers. Roy was just going to have to postpone his journey into becoming a master angler. And so, Foggy trotted out into the night once more.

* * *

Unfortunately, when he found Roy at the docks ten minutes later, he also found a posse of unhappy mobsters with very sharp looking knives.

On the bright side, the Devil found them all soon after that.

Using the distraction of his badass boyfriend, Foggy pulled Roy aside, explained about Tani’s night on the town, and ordered him to head home. Considering the mobsters, Roy didn’t need much coaxing. Really, Foggy should have followed his lead. But… Well. Once he was out of the direct line of fire, curiosity took over. That stupid human instinct that made people gawk at car wrecks had Foggy peering around the side of a warehouse to watch the Devil fight.

It was beautiful. Terrifying. Like seeing a tsunami crash over a city – destructive, enormous, unstoppable. The Devil had three knife wounds by Foggy’s count, and there was definitely something wrong with his left knee, but he blazed on like he couldn’t even feel it. Actually, he seemed to get stronger the more injuries the gangsters dug into him. The Devil was poetry in motion, but watching him destroy the men around him in full color was also the most shockingly violent thing Foggy had ever seen – and he lived in New York City, for Christ’s sake. All he could do was watch, heart pounding at a dizzying pace in his chest, until the Devil stood alone with unconscious men scattered around him like— well, ok, petals usually weren’t as bleeding or scruffy as the mobsters were. More like garbage from an exploded trash bag, really.

“Thanks for the save, stranger,” Foggy said.

But the Devil didn’t smile, didn’t acknowledge the quip. Instead, he took Foggy by the hand and led him away without a word. They only stopped several blocks later when the Devil’s limp finally caught up with him and he slumped against an alley wall to catch his breath.

“Are you ok?” Foggy asked, hands hovering an inch away from his boyfriend, worried about jostling his injuries.

The Devil cringed back against the alley wall.

“I’m,” he stammered. “I’m sorry. I never wanted you to see…”

_Oh, Jesus_. That was, just… _So_ not the kind of ok that Foggy meant. But really, he should have known there would be a mental and emotional element to okayness after something like that. The Devil did have a point, in a way. Foggy was going to spend a seriously long time processing what he’d seen in that fight. But that wasn’t the most important issue at the moment – Foggy stuffed the whole thing, all his messy, tangled feelings, into a box to sort through later and shook his head firmly.

“No, I… It’s ok,” he insisted, reaching out again. “I mean, I knew. That you did this.”

The Devil’s smile was sad and wry, his chin and lower lip streaked with blood. But he let Foggy brush fingertips over his cheek.

“It’s not the same. If… If you don’t want— Well. I’ll understand.”

Foggy knew that tone. Foggy _hated_ that tone. It was the ‘I’m used to people leaving me’ tone and he was not going to let it stand because… Because, dammit, Nelsons didn’t ditch the people they cared about. So he fisted a hand in the front of the Devil’s black shirt and tugged him forward into a kiss.

It… Kind of tasted like blood. But also, the Devil kissed with as much intensity as he fought with, and Foggy didn’t have time to think about that before he’d been twirled around and pressed up against the brick wall himself. The Devil’s mouth was hot and insistent and, well, Foggy got a little caught up.

He clutched his boyfriend tighter. Which, normally, would have been totally fine – but with that many holes poked in him it was bound to go wrong. A quiet, pained hiss slipped past the Devil’s teeth, and he went rigid under Foggy’s hands.

“Shit— Oh, god, I’m sorry,” Foggy said, hurriedly disentangling himself from his injured boyfriend. “Fuck. I’m such an idiot, we need to get you some medical treatment, stat.”

“No, I, I’m fine,” the Devil stammered in that low, rough voice.

Which was just a straight-up lie, obviously. Nobody who was leaking blood from multiple stab wounds was fine. Foggy planted his hands on his hips and channeled his mother.

“ _Dude_. I know I was the one cranking up the PDA and all but you really do need to see your nurse. I…” He hesitated, but pushed past it. “Can I walk you?”

He would be fine if the answer was no, he tried to convince himself. Really. He would _not_ go home and drink himself silly to deal with his worry and then drunk dial Matt for nebulous comfort. He would not do that. Absolutely not. Definitely not. Foggy knew his boyfriend could take care of himself, even while injured. It would be ok if he said no. It would be ok. It would—

“Yeah,” said the Devil with a low, warm laugh. “Yeah, you can walk me.”

* * *

They stumbled their way through the city, Foggy bearing as much of his boyfriend’s weight as he was allowed to. At last, they reached the right building, and the Devil directed Foggy up several floors before they reached the correct apartment.

Foggy knocked on the door, but no one answered.

“Claire,” the Devil called hoarsely. “It’s me.”

Like magic, the door swung open. Standing in it was a beautiful and harried-looking woman, already tugging a pair of blue latex gloves over her brown hands. She took one look at the Devil, bleeding out in the hallway of her apartment complex, and swore a blue streak in what Foggy was pretty sure was Spanish.

“Oh my god—” the woman said, clearly aggravated, but then cut off sharply in the middle of forming her next word.

Foggy knew it was because the Devil, arm slung over Foggy’s shoulder for balance, shook his head. The gesture was meant to be subtle, probably, but Foggy had always had great peripheral vision – hence his mad softball skills – and the blood loss wasn’t really helping the Devil’s muscle control. It didn’t exactly feel great to realize that the pretty nurse knew the Devil’s name and Foggy didn’t, but… It was ok. Foggy could wait. Wait until the Devil was ready to tell him. Ready to pull off his mask of his own volition – any other way would feel wrong, tainted.

The nurse – Claire, the Devil had called her Claire – stepped out of the way to let the two of them enter, motioned towards her couch. Foggy deposited his injured boyfriend there, gently as he could.

“So,” Claire said thoughtfully as she pulled out a well-stocked first aid kit and flipped it open. “Who’s your friend?”

“Boyfriend,” corrected the Devil shyly, his split lips twisted upwards in a pleased little smile.

A look of understanding flashed over Claire’s face, then. She gave Foggy another once-over, then shook her head with a grin of her own.

“So. He’s why you’ve been so perky lately.”

The Devil made an adorably embarrassed noise, but didn’t have time for any actual protest before Claire had started in on his injuries. She peeled back his shirt, tugged off his boots and his pants to get at the bleeding gashes on his skin.

When her hand reached for his mask, though, the Devil pressed a hand over it to stop her. The fact that she’d gone for it at all meant that he’d had the mask off in front of her before – which, fair, what if he’d taken a blow to the head or something, it wasn’t like she’d have been able to treat him through the mask. But. But the Devil had stopped her, and that meant he was holding back specifically due to Foggy’s presence. The twist in Foggy’s gut returned, but he pushed it away. Watched as Claire stitched the Devil’s hurts closed, one by one, with efficient grace. Once she was finished, she peeled off her gloves and tossed them in the trash before striding over to Foggy.

“Claire,” she greeted him, and her handshake was strong – she’d make a killing in the business world, Foggy thought to himself a little nonsensically.

“Foggy.” Claire’s expression was skeptical, so Foggy shrugged. “Trust me, you’d go by anything else too if you had my given name.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Claire told him.

“You’ll have to, because if I have my way you’re never gonna learn my legal name. Too many people already know it,” he joked in response, moving over to the couch.

Sluggishly, the Devil lifted a hand, and Foggy took it in his own.

“Hey,” came the weak greeting from the Devil’s bloodied lips.

“Hey yourself. Gonna pull through?”

“Always do.”

“He’ll be ok,” promised Claire, and she put a hand lightly on Foggy’s forearm like somehow she sensed that he still had too much worry vibrating under his skin. “A little sore, and I would recommend a break from fighting for at least a couple of days – if you can possibly convince him. God knows I can’t.”

The fond irritation startled Foggy into a laugh.

“Yeah,” he said. “He’s pretty stubborn.”

“I’m pretty sure,” rasped the Devil, “boyfriends are supposed to kiss you better, not insult your character.”

“I’m very talented,” replied Foggy, smoothing a palm over the least-bruised part of his boyfriend’s scruffy jaw. “I can do both.”

“You are very talented,” the Devil agreed.

His tone was, Foggy thought, charmingly besotted. The two of them smiled at each other like idiots until they were interrupted by a quiet clearing of Claire’s throat. Both of them turned towards her, but her eyes were on Foggy.

“Can I talk to him privately for a minute?” she asked, not unkindly, gesturing towards the Devil.

Foggy nodded and made his way across the apartment to give the two of them some space. From the corner of his eye, he could see her settle on the arm of the couch nearest to the Devil’s head. She leaned down over him and began to speak, low and harsh.

Though Foggy couldn’t pick out the words of their hissed argument, his skin prickled the way it always had in high school when other kids were whispering about him behind his back. He rubbed his arms to deal with his nerves, and kept his gaze turned intensely out Claire’s window at the street below.

“Ok,” Claire said at last, loud enough that Foggy knew he was being addressed. “He’s clear to go. Get this fool out of my sight before I smack him for being ridiculous.”

“There’s enough bruises on him for one night,” agreed Foggy wryly.

He and Claire helped the Devil to his feet, careful not to pull on the stitches she’d just put in. Then the three of them shuffled towards Claire’s front door like competitors in some sort of four-legged race. If those actually existed, Foggy wasn’t sure.

“I’ll walk you this time,” offered the Devil after Claire bid them goodbye and closed her door, warm and sweet in Foggy’s ear.

“I’m not sure it counts when you’re still leaning on me like you’re three sheets to the wind,” Foggy joked.

“It does.”

The stubborn pout on the Devil’s face was the final word on the topic. Foggy was entirely too charmed to disagree with him after that.

* * *

Two days after meeting Claire, Foggy’s worry about his reckless vigilante boyfriend had dulled enough to let him again focus on the dynamic of the Nelson and Murdock offices. Or, rather, to focus on Matt. Because the thing was, Foggy had been meaning to sit down and have a talk with Matt for a while.

He had been more distant lately – he hardly ever came out with Foggy and Karen anymore, always off doing his own thing and not talking about it. And since the ‘just got laid’ grin was making a hell of a lot of appearances, it wasn’t that hard to figure out that Hottie McBurnerPhone, the mystery hookup, had made it to girlfriend status. After all, secretive and distant was just how Matt got around girls he was serious about.

Or unhealthily caught up in.

Foggy’s guts twisted at the thought, but— No. No, Matt wouldn’t— He went stupid for hot girls that were bad news, yeah, but… But the kind of soft happiness on Matt’s face whenever he offered that he’d had ‘a good night’ was miles different from how he looked after spending time around one of his Bad Decision Women. That had always made him giddy, but in a slightly debilitated way – like being high, or drunk. Something hazy and sexual and rough.

Foggy figured those relationships were Matt’s way of indulging his adrenaline-junkie nature without, like, literally joining a fight club. Because Matt could act buttoned-up and professional with the best of them, but once you got him out of his shell, he was totally wild. And while Foggy held it true that Matt’s weakness for dangerous women was a source of constant suffering for both of them, at least he wasn’t searching out people fucked up enough to hit a blind guy.

Not that any of that was the point, Foggy decided at last, shaking himself out of the tangent. The point was that Matt was clearly in way deep with this woman – and while Foggy was hopeful that it was a healthy relationship that made Matt happy, he missed his best friend.

“So,” he began, tapping the back of Matt’s hand and offering him a cup of coffee – in the red mug that Matt somehow inexplicably liked best, despite not being able to see the color that differentiated it from their other coffee mugs. “Anything you’d like to tell me?”

Matt, halfway through a sip, choked.

“I. I’m. What?”

“You’re not sneaky, Murdock,” Foggy informed him. “You and the chick you’ve been sleeping with are finally going steady, right?”

The tension dropped out of Matt’s shoulders almost immediately, and he laughed.

“ _Going steady_? What decade are we in, Fog?”

“Um, let the record reflect that the witness is avoiding the question—”

Which earned Foggy a swat on the arm and another bright peal of laughter. Good, he thought to himself. Matt needed to laugh as much as possible.

“Yes,” Matt said, voice still shaky with mirth. “Yeah, ok, we are. But you’re not— you’re not sneaky either, Foggy. New boyfriend, right?”

And ok, maybe Matt could have figured out Foggy was in a new relationship on his own, but there was nothing to say it was a boyfriend. Well. Almost nothing.

“Karen is going on probation for this,” he muttered.

“Fog,” scolded Matt halfheartedly. “Now who’s avoiding the question?”

Foggy sighed.

“Yeah. New boyfriend.”

“And…? What’s he like?” Matt asked, setting down his coffee to lace his fingers together and lean forward in interest.

“He’s…” Foggy considered his answer, leaning his hip against Matt’s desk. “Sweet. Caring. Brave. A little wild. And hot. Like, oh my god, I know you can’t see what I’m doing with my hands right now Matt, but it’s a helpless gesture of not being able to describe something because he is just… _So hot_.”

Matt nodded, his cheeks a little pink.

“Good, that’s. That’s good.”

Silence settled between them for a few moments, and Matt fumbled for his mug, took another sip of coffee.

“And you?” Foggy asked at last, shoving his hands in his pockets to stop himself from fidgeting. “What’s your mystery girlfriend like?”

“A worrier,” started Matt shaking his head. “But so… So understanding, and just. Beautiful, in every way. Funny, clever… You know, the kind of— the kind of person who can always make you laugh, make you feel better even when everything else is going wrong.”

“Sounds like things are getting serious,” Foggy pointed out.

The smile that lit Matt’s face then was secretive, warm. A distant part of Foggy ached to know that that smile was for someone else, but he muffled the impulse firmly. Matt was his best friend, and he deserved to be happy. Foggy wasn’t going to ruin it by being anything less than supportive. And besides… Foggy still might not have the Devil’s name or his full face, but he had his crooked grin – shy and mischievous, awed and hopeful – had his gentle touches and eager kisses and, Foggy hoped, his trust. It wasn’t on par with the bedrock of Foggy’s love for Matt, but it was still important and not worth ruining for the sake of an idle, decade-long daydream.

“Yeah— Maybe,” Matt said. “I. I hope so.”

“Any chance you’ll bring her around to the office so Karen and I can meet her?”

Matt faltered, then, the smile freezing on his face.

“I. Um. I’m not sure that’s. Uh.”

“Oh,” murmured Foggy, and his heart sank. “No, I mean that’s… It’s your relationship, man. I’m not trying to pressure you.”

“Sorry,” said Matt.

His face looked pale and sick with guilt, and he ducked his head slightly like he was waiting for a blow. That made Foggy’s heart sink more. He didn’t want Matt to feel guilty just because he wasn’t ready to share his new relationship. It was a personal thing.

“No, don’t be sorry,” Foggy insisted, reaching out to squeeze Matt’s shoulder. “I’m not mad, buddy. I was just curious, that’s all. As long as she’s making you happy, that’s all that matters.”

Finally, finally, a weak smile pulled back onto Matt’s face.

“You too,” he told Foggy earnestly. “As long, as long as you’re happy, I’m glad.”

Matt really was, Foggy thought, the _best_ best friend a guy could ask for.

* * *

That night was doubly wonderful. First off, Matt actually came along with Karen and Foggy to Josie’s and the three of them spent the evening laughing over unidentifiable booze and playing pool. At the end of the night, Foggy and Matt walked Karen home, then caught cabs to their own apartments. That would have been enough for Foggy, but a couple hours later he was woken from his sleep by a firm, quiet ratta-tat-tat on his window.

When he opened it up, he was pleasantly surprised to find that for once the Devil looked relatively free of injury. There was a single scrape on his cheek, but that was all.

“Looking good,” Foggy teased, reaching out to trace a thumb across his boyfriend’s bottom lip.

It prompted a familiar sharp, hungry smile that made Foggy’s heart leap in his chest. Almost before he’d closed the window behind him, the Devil had shucked off his black shirt and unbuttoned his cargo pants. He kicked off his boots, removed his gloves, and pressed Foggy back into bed, then all but sprawled across him. The weight was… Well, a lot, considering how totally ripped the Devil was, but it was comforting too.

“Quiet night?” murmured Foggy, reaching up to wrap his arms around his boyfriend’s scarred back.

“Mm. Yes. Quiet,” the Devil agreed distractedly.

He pressed a messy kiss to Foggy’s cheek, then sat up and began trailing cold fingertips over Foggy’s bare chest.

“Ugh, jeez. You need thicker gloves, man. Let me just…”

For several minutes, Foggy rubbed his boyfriend’s chilled hands between his own warm ones, pressing kisses to the scarred knuckles in his grip every few seconds just because he could. And then, like the troublemaker he was, the Devil grinned and rolled his hips – sending a spike of pleasure up Foggy’s spine.

“Come on,” he cajoled, that familiar sharp smirk going soft and pretty and sweet. “Wanna touch you.”

“Y-yeah, ok,” said Foggy because— really, what other answer could he give?

Hands free, the Devil began running them up and down Foggy’s sides and making low, happy humming sounds. The only deviation from those soothing caresses was when he deftly untied the knot in Foggy’s pajama pants, tugging them and his underwear down just enough to trace those clever fingers teasingly over Foggy’s dick. That was it, just one playful little stroke before he returned to gently rubbing Foggy’s sides.

“Hey,” Foggy complained – whined, really, even if he didn’t like admitting it.

“Mm. Don’t worry, sweetheart,” purred the Devil. “I’ve got you.”

He shimmied closer, pressed them together from shoulders to knees. Which was good, yes, but Foggy was a believer in going for gold – so he grabbed a handful of his boyfriend’s absolutely spectacular ass and pressed his own hips upward to get a little payback. The choked moan that spilled from the Devil’s lips was music to Foggy’s ears.

“I think maybe _I’ve_ got _you_ ,” Foggy teased.

“Works for me,” laughed the Devil, still a little short of breath.

“Good.”

Foggy leaned up and stole a quick peck, two, three— until his boyfriend got impatient and captured his mouth in a deep, slow, open-mouthed kiss that stole Foggy’s breath away completely. When they broke apart, the Devil grinned his sharp grin again and tucked his face down to begin biting a mark over Foggy’s pulse point.

“Jesus you’re beautiful,” he murmured against the skin of Foggy’s throat, his hands still making distracting little petting motions up and down Foggy’s sides.

Foggy laughed a bit incredulously.

“ _Beautiful_?”

It wasn’t a word he was used to getting applied to himself as a descriptor. Charming, funny, sweet, cute? Absolutely. Handsome? On a good day, yeah. But beautiful?

“Beautiful,” repeated the Devil, and his earnest tone sent a little thrill through Foggy’s heart.

Of course – like the devil he was – he then immediately returned to biting a mark into Foggy’s throat, flipping from sweet back to sexy quick enough to make Foggy’s head spin. And after that, well, there wasn’t much room for thinking at all.

* * *

Warm and sated and pressed close to his boyfriend’s side in bed, Foggy had almost drifted off when there was a soft sound of a throat clearing.

“Foggy…?”

The Devil sounded hesitant, unsure.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“I…”

With a sigh and a rustle of sheets, the Devil sat up. The change in position had a stripe of moonlight falling across his jaw, and Foggy could see that his lips were pressed anxiously together. Foggy sat up too, gently laced their fingers together.

“It’s ok, you can tell me,” he offered, not sure what else to say, how else to coax without pushing.

There was a nod in response, jerky and tense.

“It’s. The kingpin, the man at the top. His…” The Devil licked his lips, swallowed. “His name is Wilson Fisk. But that… That’s all I’ve been able to find out about him.”

Wilson Fisk. It didn’t sound like an especially evil name, but Foggy shuddered at the sound of it anyway. He shook himself, tried to throw off the ridiculous unease that had settled in his chest and think logically.

“Maybe that’s enough. If we put his name out there, if we accuse him publically… Like with Union Allied, maybe…” he offered.

Shrugging, the Devil rubbed his thumb over Foggy’s knuckles.

“Yeah… Maybe.”

“Ill tell Ben,” promised Foggy. “Tomorrow. He’s old hat at this, he’ll know the best way to break the story. You’ll see. It’ll all work out.”

Tellingly, there was no verbal agreement from the Devil. But he leaned over and pressed a kiss – warm, slow – to Foggy’s mouth. And for the moment, that was enough.

* * *

Both Karen and Matt were already at the office when Foggy arrived the next morning, so he didn’t even need to wait to tell them his news. Karen, clever as she was, wanted to know where Foggy had learned the name of their man at the top. Matt did too, apparently, judging by the way his brows quirked over his glasses.

Which was… Probably something Foggy should have thought up a good story for, because he was good at making arguments on the fly, but he was downright abysmal at lying.

“It. Er, I. Uh.” He cleared his throat. “I happened… To… Come across your man in the mask again? Yeah. Yeah. And he, you know, told me to pass it along.”

Which was… Sort of the truth, right? Foggy fought the urge to cross his fingers behind his back.

“Uh _huh_ …” Karen murmured thoughtfully, squinting at him in a way that made sweat prickle at the nape of his neck.

“Well, at least now we have something,” said Matt, breaking the tension clean in two with a calm little smile. “Were you planning on taking that information to Ben Urich, then?”

Foggy nodded.

“I nodded,” he said for Matt’s benefit. “Yeah, I figure he’ll know what to do with it best. But, uh… Sorry, Matt, I… I’m not sure he’ll be happy if he finds out we roped you into this too, so…”

“The two of us will go,” decided Karen. “If… That’s ok with you, Matt?”

A quiet laugh spilled from Matt’s lips.

“Godspeed,” he said with a flourishing bow.

And so, while Matt settled in his office with a pile of Braille paperwork, Foggy and Karen went together to Ben – handed over that name, Wilson Fisk, and watched Ben’s eyes light up behind his glasses with fire and passion.

“It’s not much,” Ben said, low and determined. “But I can work with it. If I put that name together with everything else we have… I can write something to drag him out into the light.”

He was at his keyboard typing almost before Karen and Foggy got out the door of his office. It didn’t quite feel real, even as Karen tugged him down the street with a giddy laugh – back to the office, back to Matt. The three of them hardly got anything done the rest of the day, jittery and anxious and excited, and they parted ways at the office door. It felt too much like counting their eggs before they were hatched to celebrate with drinks at Josie’s.

“Tomorrow,” Karen promised earnestly, reaching out to squeeze Foggy’s left hand in her right and Matt’s right in her left. “We’ll all go together tomorrow. We’ll take Ben with us.”

“Sounds perfect,” agreed Matt with a soft but dazzling smile.

And so, the three of them said goodnight and headed off separately.

Foggy was doing his best not to skip home like an idiot, but it was difficult to control himself. They had an edge. An advantage, for the first time in their fight against Wilson Fisk and his mobster cronies. Things would be—

Except then, in a storefront, Foggy’s eyes caught on a TV playing the news, because the name Wilson Fisk wasn’t just rattling around in his head – it was playing loudly from the TV. The whole world slowed to a stop. The man speaking, the one who’d tried to have Karen killed, the one who’d blown up half of Hell’s Kitchen, was huge and soft-spoken and wearing a well-tailored suit. There was a beautiful woman standing next to him.

_So_ , Foggy thought numbly, _this is Wilson Fisk._

All it took was a couple of stumbling, gravelly sentences from Fisk for Foggy’s heart to drop into his shoes. Their man at the top had flashed his hand at last – and it was a really, really good one. He sounded shy and earnest and purposeful. A reclusive philanthropist pushed into acting by the crimes of a masked vigilante. He’d twisted the narrative, shaped it to suit himself because the Devil didn’t have a voice to speak, a way to correct the story – not with the entire NYPD gunning for him.

When the news finally switched to something else, Foggy tore his eyes away from the TV screen in the window and continued down the street at a shamble. Though he went through the motions of going home, hanging up his suit, making supper… His mind wasn’t on it at all. It just kept chugging uselessly over the same unhelpful thought – _how could this happen_?

Foggy didn’t sleep well that night. He kept waking up, hoping it would be to a knock on his window. But the night was silent and empty around him. The Devil never made an appearance.

* * *

The mood in the office the next day was somber, angry, defeated. And there was nothing Foggy could do, no encouraging speech he could make that would magically turn the situation around. Fisk had won the battle. No, things weren’t completely over for them, but pointing that out wasn’t going to cheer anyone up. They were, all of them, going to have a long, hard slog ahead of them if they wanted to bring down the kingpin tearing Hell’s Kitchen apart. Foggy was just one broke lawyer.

Still… Looking at Karen’s determined expression as she worked, looking at Matt’s tense posture and bruised knuckles… Foggy knew that he had to do something to lift their spirits. But what? He drummed his pen against his desk as he thought.

And then Foggy remembered a passing thought he’d had, weeks ago, and smiled.

* * *

The bell on the door of Nelson’s Meats jangled merrily as Foggy stepped inside.

“Theo! Darling brother of mine!” he called.

Theo sighed, glancing up from the roast beef he was slicing.

“What is it this time?” he asked wearily.

Pressing a hand to his chest, Foggy pulled his most affronted expression.

“I can’t just visit my precious little brother out of the goodness of my heart? Out of deep fraternal love?”

Theo grinned and shook his head.

“If you were any hammier, Fog, I could stock you on the shelves with the prosciutto,” he joked. “What is it?”

“Well…” Foggy wheedled. “It’s just that Cousin Bridget might still be just a teeny tiny bit mad at me about the Beef Stew Incident and I really need a favor from her.”

Even though Theo sighed loudly and rolled his eyes, he was smiling. Foggy pumped a fist in victory.


	10. All Those Little Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Karen get a present. The offices of Nelson and Murdock begin to strategize. Matt knows his lies are going to catch up to him eventually, but that doesn't stop him from telling them.

Matt didn’t want to get out of bed. He did it, but he didn’t want to. And sure, he was physically exhausted from spending too much time scouring the streets fruitlessly for leads on how to take Fisk down, but it was more than that. Everything was— everything was pressing in on him. Like a weight, like failure. They’d come so close only to be thwarted at the last minute, and he could only think… What if he’d pressed Blake harder, earlier? What if he’d told Foggy Fisk’s name as soon as he’d learned it? What if, what if, what if…? Would it have changed anything? Had his reticence and desire to keep Foggy safe been the reason Fisk had gotten the jump on them? Or were things always meant to end up that way – was Matt’s hard work to tip the scales all just a useless gesture in the first place? Neither was an encouraging thought.

Nonetheless, Matt dragged himself out of bed. Showered, got dressed, gathered everything he would need for the day with a steady and grim determination. Working at the firm was something he could still do, and he had a duty to do it. And he… He didn’t want to disappoint Foggy.

That desire was motivation enough that he arrived at the offices early – early enough that he met Karen at the stairs.

“Matt! Good to see you before nine,” she teased, nudging his shoulder lightly with her own.

“I set my alarm this morning,” he joked right back, and it was easy to smile when he could hear the comforting, steady beat of Foggy’s heart a floor above them. “Shall we?”

When Matt held out a hand, Karen placed her arm in it, and they walked up the stairs together. Each click of Karen’s heels on the wood illuminated the building around them, and something… Something was different. Minutely, in one of the building’s rooms.

He didn’t figure it out until Karen opened the door to Nelson and Murdock. And there, glowing with his usual warmth, was Foggy – sitting on something wide and solid and upholstered. A couch, if Matt had to guess.

“Merry Couchmas, denizens of Nelson and Murdock!” Foggy greeted them both brightly.

“Um, what?” laughed Matt, shaking his head.

“Well, you know me, Murdock, I’m all about comfort, approachability, and naps. So I got us this—” He patted the couch loud enough to be audible. “—lovely, cushy secondhand couch from Cousin Bridget. Not to be rude but you both might need a little more beauty sleep if we’re gonna uphold the rigorous aesthetic standards of this law firm.”

The cheeriness in Foggy’s voice was infectious; it wiped away the exhaustion Matt had been dragging with him since Fisk’s speech. More than that, the couch was a gift, a delicate attempt by Foggy to show Karen and Matt that he cared about them without coming across as pushy. That sort of skill was something Foggy’d had a lot of practice honing with him for a best friend, Matt thought, chagrined.

“Foggy,” Karen said, her voice warm and a little wet. “Thank you.”

“Yes. Yes, thank you,” agreed Matt. “That’s. That was really thoughtful, Foggy.”

“Well?” Another pat of the couch. “Come check it out, see what you think.”

“He’s in the middle of the couch,” Karen narrated as she led Matt over. “I think he just wants to be sandwiched between his beautiful colleagues. For shame.”

Foggy laughed brightly, and a shift of fabric and heat told Matt that Foggy had spread his arms along the back of the couch.

“You should know by now that I have no shame, Karen,” he said. “It’s why I get paid the big bucks.”

“We’re _paying_ you? No wonder we’re in the red,” Matt joked.

At last, his cane knocked lightly against the leg of the couch. He reached out, felt along the back and gave in to the temptation to brush over Foggy’s wrist in a slight fumble before turning to take a seat. With a _whump_ noise, Karen plopped down on Foggy’s other side.

“Oh! This _is_ comfy!” she exclaimed.

“Only the best for you, Karen.”

“Not for me?” Matt wondered, feeling fizzy and a little stupid as he leaned back to rest his head against Foggy’s bicep.

Foggy’s heartbeat stuttered attractively, and Matt grinned. There was still so much to be worried about – Fisk, Mrs. Cardenas, Nobu, the NYPD… But sitting pressed up next to Foggy and Karen in their familiar little law firm, it was like Matt was in a bubble of warmth and happiness. Like all the energy he’d been lacking when he woke up that morning was right there waiting for him, better than any cup of coffee.

“Oh jeez, Murdock,” said Foggy warmly. “You’re such a sap. Yes, for you too. But only a little. Mostly for Karen.”

Karen let out a frankly adorable crow of triumph that just made the joy in Matt’s heart swell. He thought maybe the other two were as content as he was, because no one made a move to the kitchenette to brew coffee, or to their desks to start working.

It was Foggy who broke their comfortable silence.

“Um, I just…” he began, and then couldn’t seem to find the words to finish.

“Foggy?” asked Karen.

A quiet sigh spilled past Foggy’s lips.

“I know I joke, but… You two really should take care of yourselves,” Foggy said quietly, leaning back into the couch. “I worry, you know? Putting Fisk away is important but if it’s all you think about, you’ll run yourselves ragged.”

He was right, of course. Matt had already begun to feel the strain of putting 100% into both sides of his double life, with little to no down time. Matt couldn’t afford to slack off if he wanted to beat Fisk, but… But maybe there was more he could do for himself too. He didn’t want to make Foggy worry.

“And what do you suggest, Mr. Nelson?” asked Matt. “An office spa trip?”

“I vote for spa trip,” Karen cheered. “High five, Matt!”

She leaned almost all the way over Foggy, and Matt held up a hand gamely for her to high five. The slap of skin on skin was a little harder than Matt expected, but given his pain tolerance, it didn’t even hurt. With a laugh, Foggy tugged them both in by the shoulders.

“I think starting with you two ridiculous workaholics getting eight hours of sleep a night is enough for now,” he said.

“Boo,” complained Karen, though by the shape of the sound Matt could guess she was still smiling. “I want back rubs and cucumber slices on my eyes.”

“Naps first. I insist. I’ll make the coffee this morning, and you guys just rest for a few minutes. Then we can start formulating plans about Fisk and the tenancy case and all that.”

With one last gentle squeeze, Foggy slipped out from between Matt and Karen and ambled over to the kitchenette.

“Sounds good to me,” Karen said quietly, and only then did Matt realize how tired she sounded.

There’d been a low level of strain in her breathing and her movements basically since they’d met – understandable, given what she’d been going through. Still understandable considering what they were currently up against. But… This was different. More, somehow.

She hadn’t been sleeping.

And Foggy had noticed first, if the couch was any indication. He’d certainly meant it as a gift for both of them – but, then, Matt was always in need of more sleep. For Foggy to think the couch was an effective present for Karen too, he had to have thought she needed rest. Foggy could be oblivious when it suited him, Matt thought, lulled by the steady drip of coffee into the pot, but he was also extremely in-tune with the needs of the people around him. Always looking for ways to help them, to make their lives easier. It was one of the things Matt loved most about him. Foggy could act mercenary and self-centered all he wanted, but his actions always spoke volumes about how much he cared.

Matt drifted a little, then. Let the fruity smell of Karen’s shampoo and the softness of the couch and the comforting metronome of Foggy’s heartbeat across the office blur together until he was floating on an ocean of soothing sensations.

* * *

“—let him sleep a little longer. I’ll handle it.”

“Mm up,” Matt mumbled, somehow knowing even while half-asleep that the words were about him.

He shook his head a little, tried to get all his senses sorted again. Cars rumbling down the street outside. Karen’s heartbeat. The smell of coffee. Soft, cushy fabric under his cheek.

Foggy.

“Hey, bud,” Foggy greeted with a chuckle. “Got some drool on your chin.”

Which was true, Matt realized with more than a little embarrassment, and wiped it away with the back of his hand while he sat up. The weight of his hair sat oddly on his head, which likely meant he had his usual, awful case of bedhead.

“Hairbrush?” he asked, holding out a hand.

“I have a comb,” offered Karen, setting it in his palm with a slight brush of her soft fingertips.

It would have to do. Matt combed through his hair until it at least felt like it was lying flat, then returned the comb to Karen.

“How… How long was I out?”

“Couple hours,” Foggy told him. “It’s 11:15 now. Judging by your snoring, you needed it.”

“Foggy!” A light smack. “You didn’t snore, Matt, I promise. He’s just teasing you.”

“Well, at least I can trust one person in this office to be honest with me. Thank you, Karen.”

It was a… It was a joke, of course, except that. If anyone was being dishonest, it was Matt. And Foggy had no idea. Even as Matt got situated in his office, started reading through the notes on Mrs. Cardenas’s case – which Foggy had been willing to try and study himself just to let Matt rest more, even though he was dead slow at reading Braille – the thought wouldn’t leave his head.

There was just _so much_ Foggy didn’t know. He didn’t even know Matt wasn’t straight. It… It ached, a little, every time Foggy said ‘she’, every time he didn’t know he was hearing about himself. Every time Matt knew he was hearing Foggy’s true feelings about him, and that Foggy didn’t realize what Matt was saying to him in return.

Each time they talked about their relationships, which were in truth one and the same, Matt’s heart twinged with guilt and Claire’s words came back to him.

* * *

_“What are you doing?” she had hissed at him, and the censure in her voice had been enough to make Matt cringe. “You’re dating him and he doesn’t even know your name!”_

_Matt licked his lips anxiously, then, and caught a coppery tang of blood on his tongue._

_“He. He does know my name,” he’d said weakly. “And my face. He just doesn’t… Know that they belong to me.”_

_“And what does that mean,” asked Claire, low and tight – probably talking through gritted teeth._

_“You can’t tell him, Claire, you can’t— Please don’t tell him.”_

_“Haven’t yet, have I? But I think I deserve to know why.”_

_She did. Matt had known that. Known that the fact that she’d taken his cues and kept quiet so far was more than he deserved. It didn’t mean he’d wanted to admit the truth to her, though. Matt had curled in on himself guiltily, tried to tune out her irritated sigh and the anxious thud of Foggy’s pulse from across the apartment._

_“He’s my.” Matt had swallowed, hard. “He’s my best friend, and I’m in… I. But he doesn’t know it’s me, and if he found out I’ve been lying to him about—about what I can do, about all of this, I. He’d. He’d be so angry, Claire, and if he leaves me… I can’t. Please. I can’t lose him.”_

_Matt wasn’t quite sure when he’d started clinging to her arms as though she might walk right over to Foggy and expose him immediately, but when he came back to himself he’d known his grip was too hard, too desperate. Hurriedly, he’d released Claire. Though she said nothing, the way she massaged her arms and the glowing warmth from where Matt had gripped had told him she might be sporting some bruises soon._

_“I’m. I’m sorry, Claire, I’m so—”_

_“You love him,” she’d interrupted. “And he obviously loves you. And… No offense, but you are shit at keeping secrets. He’s going to find out, Matt. And if it were me, I’d prefer being told the truth. As soon as possible.”_

_“I can’t,” Matt had pleaded. “Claire, I… I can’t.”_

_Claire heaved another sigh, more frustrated than weary._

_“Yeah. I figured you’d say that.”_

* * *

Matt… Knew that he was making a mistake. It was wrong to deceive Foggy, to exploit his knowledge of Foggy to keep him in the dark. But Matt couldn’t help himself. He’d cheat and lie as much as he had to. He’d do whatever it took to hold on to Foggy for as long as he could. Because Matt loved him – deeply, in a way Stick had warned him never to love anyone. Claire was right – the truth would come out eventually, made all the worse by the lying, but… At least lying would buy Matt more time before Foggy left like everyone else always did.

“Matt?”

He started, knocking the papers off his desk.

“Wh. I. Foggy,” Matt stammered, scrambling to pick up his paperwork. “What, what is it?”

There was a shift of fabric and warmth as Foggy bent down next to Matt’s desk to help him gather the sheets of Braille together.

“You totally spaced, man. I asked if you felt a little more rested after your nap. Apparently, the answer is no,” said Foggy wryly, placing the stack of paperwork he’d collected on Matt’s desk.

“Yeah, I. Sorry. It was… Yeah. Long night last night.”

Matt cringed a little, praying Foggy wouldn’t ask for an elaboration. And it seemed like maybe he noticed, because the quiet sigh that ghosted out of his mouth was resigned. Still, Foggy was Foggy – when he spoke again, his tone was jaunty and teasing and bright.

“Well, Karen got us all some lunch, so why don’t you come out and we can talk strategy while we eat?”

“Sounds good, Fogs,” Matt agreed.

Maybe it was getting too obvious that he was worn out, he considered as he sat down to lunch at the conference table. Karen had gotten them food from that slightly-upscale Greek place they could only theoretically afford. It was one of Matt’s favorites. And really, having… Having feelings over food was ridiculous. Stick would—

Not that it mattered what Stick would think. It wasn’t really the food itself anyway, it was the fact that Karen and Foggy cared about him. That they were worried about him. Matt had to swallow a couple of times before he managed to speak.

“Smells good,” he said, tried for a smile that probably came out too wobbly. “Thanks, Karen.”

“Eat up, then, do you know how many blocks I had to go for this?” she teased brightly, and the warm, brief pat of her hand on his shoulder sent a shock of joy-care-happiness all through him.

So, Matt ate. And for a while, the three of them were able to simply enjoy good food and good company – but the fact was, they really did need to discuss their next move with regards to Fisk. For Karen and Foggy, the best decision would be to back off, but Matt wasn’t sure he could actually convince them to do it. Not without telling them that he was the Devil, the man in the mask. And there was no way he was going to do that.

“So,” he said, dragging the tines of his fork through the last bites of his lunch. “Wilson Fisk. I don’t suppose either of you has a plan for what to do next…?”

There was a soft, familiar groan of frustration, followed by the sound of Foggy’s fingers raking through his hair.

“Not exactly. He screwed us good with that press conference. And the Devil along with us. I’m not sure there _is_ a way forward.”

“We have a name now, Foggy,” Karen reminded him firmly. “Even if Fisk put himself out there, his past can’t be as clean as he’s pretending it is. We just have to dig deeper. Look at Fisk, look at the people around him.”

“Sure,” said Foggy. “The ones standing next to him at his speech.” There was a heavy slide of plastic on plastic – a laptop – followed by the familiar uneven clacking rhythm of Foggy’s typing. “I don’t know if you were able to get any sort of video description, Matt, but it looks like there’s a lady – maybe a girlfriend or something? – an old guy, and… _Shit_.”

The way Foggy’s heart jolted made Matt’s gut clench.

“What?” he demanded. “What is it?”

There’s an insistent tap of skin on screen, just audible over the hum of electricity.

“That’s the guy, isn’t it? Karen? The Confed Global guy. The creepy serial-killer-eyes one.”

Karen swallowed loudly, her hair swishing as she nodded.

“That’s him all right,” she agreed quietly. “James Wesley.”

And Matt had… He’d known that they were doing Fisk’s work, taking that case, even if he hadn’t known Fisk’s name at the time. And he’d done it anyway, to learn more. But to find out that someone _so close_ to Fisk’s inner circle had been… The idea of anyone like that near Foggy and Karen…

“Then we choose someone else,” Matt insisted. “We don’t, we don’t want to be anywhere near him. Not if we’re going to keep digging. He knows who we are.”

“Seconded,” agreed Karen immediately. “What’s your suggestion?”

The old guy was probably Owlsley. And even if Matt had been in a mask when they met, he did not want him putting two and two together. Not to mention that a guy like Owlsley would be demanding a full team of security. No, better to stick with someone else. Approaching Fisk directly was a hard no, and none of them wanted to risk tipping off Confed Global Guy, who already knew their names and faces. Which meant Matt was down to a single avenue of approach.

“I thought I’d start with the girlfriend,” he said.

Foggy’s sigh was so exasperated that Matt didn’t need sight or a narration to know Foggy was rolling his eyes.

“Of course you did.” More key-tapping. “Ok. Vanessa Marianna, she works at, uh… Scene Contempo Gallery. She’s pretty, if you’re wondering, although I’m sure your mystical attractiveness radar already told you that somehow. Just don’t flirt too much or I’ll be honor-bound to track down your mystery girlfriend and tattle on you.”

“I don’t _flirt_ ,” Matt protested.

“Uh huh. Sure you don’t, buddy.”

In the end, Matt couldn’t come up with a good enough reason to stop Foggy and Karen from digging into Owlsley’s work and financials, but he extracted a promise from them not to approach the man himself or Silver & Brent’s building. It would have to do.

* * *

It took several minutes for Matt to get his bearings upon entering Scene Contempo, and several more to get the attention of a gallery employee that could lead him to Vanessa Marianna.

“Can I help you?” she asked, when they were finally face to face.

She smelled expensive – fancy perfume, what must have been Fisk’s cologne, gourmet food, and the art around them – and sounded… Matt wasn’t certain. Israeli, maybe? He was usually a pretty dab hand with accents, but the architecture of the gallery wasn’t kind to his enhanced senses.

“I hope so,” Matt said in return, trying on a charming smile and offering a hand. “Ah, I. I’m Matthew.”

“Vanessa,” she returned, and gave his hand a firm, professional shake.

They bantered, a little – not flirting, whatever Foggy said, Matt had no interest in flirting with Vanessa Marianna, no matter how pretty she apparently was. And, ok, maybe she was on to something with a line like ‘there's something very intimate in experiencing art through someone else's eyes.’ But that was all, really. The whole, ‘tonal reds’ thing was just… Bizarre. It threw him off, made him fumble a little as he tried to pry about Fisk.

Fisk was. Big. Bigger than Matt had expected. It was like the bulk of him had displaced all the air in the room. Him sneaking up on Matt should have been unthinkable, and yet… And yet. Matt fumbled for his charm, his wit, to cover his panic – and found them both wanting. He could hardly remember what they spoke about – a brief mention of the tenancy case, something about making the city a better place. All Matt could marshal his senses to interpret was. Was…

Love.

Fisk really, truly loved Vanessa Marianna. And she loved him back. They both ran a little warm, touched each other tenderly, spoke with a slightly softer tone when addressing each other. Fisk’s booming, drum-like bass heartbeat almost _fluttered_ when Vanessa addressed him. As soon as possible, Matt made his excuses and fled.

* * *

When his world went sideways on him, Matt had three places of refuge. Fogwell’s Gym, Clinton Church, and Foggy. He was too keyed up to waste time going back to his apartment for workout clothes, and Foggy… Whatever the tangle of emotions Matt was feeling about Fisk, it wasn’t something Matt Murdock could go to him with – too dark, too… He just couldn’t. Not while Foggy didn’t know that Matt was the man in the mask.

Matt ended up at the church.

And his conversation with Father Lantom helped, in some ways. It did. He knew Matt’s violence, his darkness, far more deeply than anyone else did, and he still thought Matt didn’t have murder in his heart. Still believed that, deep down, Matt wanted a reason to keep from crossing that line. It made it easier for Matt to believe it too.

But it did nothing to settle his nerves. After leaving Clinton Church, Matt paced his apartment restlessly until he could go out in the mask. The sounds and smells and presence of Wilson Fisk haunted him – choking, cloying, like massive hands around his throat. But finally, finally, he was able to leave, to fly across the city’s rooftops like it could help him escape his fears.

But he didn’t patrol. Couldn’t.

He showed up at Foggy’s instead.

Matt wavered, just for a moment, at the window, hand raised. And then he knocked. Through the glass, there was a muffled stutter in Foggy’s heartbeat, and then the warm heat of hands, pushing the window open.

“You came back,” Foggy said, sounding relieved, and a cold wave of guilt washed over Matt.

He reached out a gloved hand through the open window and traced his fingertips across Foggy’s cheek.

“I’ll always come back,” he promised, even knowing it wasn’t one he could be sure he could keep. “I’m sorry, I must have scared you.”

Foggy nodded.

“I wasn’t… I didn’t know if you were hurt or if you were just, you know, sulking,” he joked weakly.

“How about trying to get another lead?”

“Nah. That’s just pro-level sulking.”

And, well, the best way to get Foggy back for teasing was to kiss him into silence, obviously. To his gratification, it took several minutes before Foggy was coherent enough to scold him for letting the night air in and order him into the apartment. Not that Matt minded at all – being inside was all the better for getting Foggy into his arms. All the better to kiss him.

“Mm, wait.” Foggy shoved at him, and Matt backed off instantly. “Wait. Sorry. Not that I’m not, you know, into it, because I really, really am, just. There’s something I want to say first.”

“Sure. Of course.”

“I said it to my friends and I’ll say it to you: please don’t burn yourself out with this,” Foggy pleaded, and a shot of warmth went through Matt at the thought that both sides of him were important enough to Foggy to get that speech. “I know we’ve been knocked back on our heels here, but we need to take care of ourselves if we want to play the long game like Fisk – if we want to win. You can always come here, relax here. I’d… I’d like it if you would.”

The thrum of Foggy’s heartbeat and his shampoo on the air were heady enough to make Matt want to do anything he asked. Which was— frankly, just excessive. As if visiting him, loving him, was a hardship in the first place. Matt laughed softly, only just remembered to keep his smile sharp and teasing.

“Anything for you,” he crooned, reaching out for Foggy’s face and placing a quick, tender little kiss on his lips.

“Anything?” asked Foggy. “That’s a lot of power to give me, you know.”

“Gonna ask for my credit card numbers, Mr. Nelson?”

“Nah. Just your clothes.”

Matt’s grin went hungrier.

“No arguments here,” he said.

* * *

“Wrong again,” Matt murmured, sated and pleased and amused.

Foggy still hadn’t given up on guessing Matt’s ‘superpower’. And somehow, through dozens of possibilities, he hadn’t once touched on the truth. Still, he kept guessing and he kept tracing his hands over Matt’s bared scars and he never once went for the mask. And that was all that mattered.

“Ok, double or nothing, final jeopardy, your superpower is that you, like… Mind-melded with the city somehow. Gotta be.”

Matt shook his head, grinning.

“No,” he said, voice wobbling a bit with suppressed mirth. “No, sorry. Although if it were, I’m sure it would make my job a lot easier.”

Foggy shifted closer, pressed his cheek to Matt’s chest. The brush of his hair on Matt’s skin was silken, perfect. Beneath the mask, Matt let his eyes flutter closed. Let himself breathe, and listen, and feel. Let himself have the moment of rest and peace Foggy seemed to think he somehow deserved.


	11. The Wrong Foot Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Avocado comes to a standstill in their legal endeavors. Foggy's subconscious tries to give him a message, and he comes to entirely the wrong conclusion.

Foggy had caught Karen stroking the fabric of the couch three or four times during the first few days. Between that and Matt’s impromptu nap on it, he counted his acquisition an unqualified success. Which was good, because the firm needed all the cheer it could get. Matt, it seemed, hadn’t made much headway except to confirm that Fisk and Vanessa Marianna were indeed an item. Foggy and Karen hadn’t had much more luck with Owlsley’s financials. Even the Devil seemed to be coming up short.

Still, there was nothing for it but to slog on.

At least they had a comfy couch and Matt’s doofy smiles over his girlfriend to brighten their days. Although the latter was something of a double-edged sword – and not just for Foggy. It didn’t take a genius to see how brittle Karen’s smile was when Matt left to grab them lunch after blushing and swooning over his girlfriend for the past ten minutes like a big dweeb – just someone with working eyes. Which at least meant Karen was as safe from the embarrassment of Matt find out about her feelings as Foggy was.

It was a rodeo Foggy had been through many, many times already. But he still remembered the first time, watching Matt walk off for a date and feeling his own heart sink pathetically in his chest. Karen had much more chill than him, but he knew she had to be hurting a little.

“Break?” he offered, gesturing to the couch and making his own way over.

“Sounds good,” Karen agreed.

She settled there next to him with a sigh.

“I’m sorry, Karen,” Foggy began gently. “About all the… With Matt’s girlfriend. I know you like him.”

“I don’t— I…” She looked away, rubbed a hand over her mouth. “Is it really that obvious…?”

“Nah, you play it real cool, Page,” Foggy assured her, nudging her shoulder with his own. “I just, you know, have ten years’ experience watching girls fall in love with Matt.”

Karen laughed.

“He’s… A lot,” she said helplessly.

“Boy do I know it,” agreed Foggy, leaning back further against the couch. “He has been since I met him. You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to, but. You know. I’m here.”

“My emotions are mostly the equivalent of screaming into a pillow right now. But… Thanks. You’re a good friend, Foggy Nelson.”

Karen sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. Her hair was silky against the skin of his neck, and Foggy’s heart gave its usual little stutter of attraction. He ignored it, and settled an arm around her shoulders. Karen needed a friend. And Foggy was definitely her friend. Especially in this, although he didn’t have the heart to tell her he could empathize deeply with her pining. Their little law firm had enough awkward feelings floating around without adding to them by admitting it.

So the two of them just sat quietly, companionably, and rested as they waited for Matt to return with food.

* * *

Despite rigorous searching, they still didn’t have any new leads by the end of the day, and Foggy was itchy to be useful. He packed up his satchel, then made his way over to Karen’s desk.

“Hey, I thought maybe we could all go over to Elena’s,” he offered. “See if she and her neighbors need more handyman work. If everyone’s apartments are a little more livable, it might convince them to stick together in fighting off the buyout that Fisk’s inevitably going to try to pressure them into. It’s suspicious that he hasn’t sent something over yet, but we might as well take advantage of the extra time to prepare. Wanna come?”

Karen smiled in the weak and awkward way Foggy was used to seeing from girls who’d actually been hoping to date Matt instead of him. This time, at least, the reason for it was more innocuous. Although Foggy knew for a fact that Karen wanted to date Matt instead of him, that wasn’t what the conversation was about.

“I have… Well, I was going to…”

Go see if Ben had found any leads, no doubt. Karen was single-minded that way. Foggy didn’t exactly blame her, considering Fisk’s proclivity towards trying to have her assassinated.

“Guess it’s just me and Matt,” Foggy said easily. “Good luck in your endeavors, Ms. Page.”

He gave her a jaunty little salute as she walked out the door, and she shot a much more brilliant smile over her shoulder as she waved goodbye. That done, Foggy wandered over to Matt’s office and rapped on the doorframe with his knuckles.

“Ready to go, buddy?”

It was Matt’s turn to pull the awkward smile out, it seemed.

“I don’t know how much help I’d be,” he said leadingly, adjusting his glasses – subtly drawing attention to them, his usual overly-diplomatic stand-in for something too direct like ‘hey, I’m blind, remember?’

“You’ll be plenty of help,” answered Foggy, “even though you know shit about plumbing. You can carry my toolkit with your beefy arms and make all the little old ladies smile.”

“Foggy…”

“I know you, Matt,” Foggy reminded him fondly. “It’s been a largely fruitless day. If you go home now, you’re just going to brood all night. Maybe smash something, and honestly, I don’t think your laptop can take much more abuse. Come with me, it’ll help. Pinkie swear.”

Matt’s face shuffled through its usual arsenal of expressions – anxiety, stubbornness, fond annoyance – before finally settling on something pleasant and soft. Then he held out one hand, the littlest finger extended and all his other fingers curled towards his palm.

“If I don’t feel better, you’ll owe me a debt, Mr. Nelson, and I’m not shy about collecting.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” replied Foggy, very firmly ignoring the part of his brain that wanted to turn Matt’s words suggestive, and looped his own pinkie around Matt’s.

* * *

The two of them showed up at Elena’s door with Foggy’s toolkit and their sleeves rolled up. There was plenty to do, it turned out, not that Foggy was at all surprised. Elena’s apartment was the only one that had been purposely vandalized, but the bombings had done their fair share of damage to the entire building. Foggy didn’t have the tools or expertise to fix any of the windows – although he gave everyone who needed new ones the number of his cousin Archie, who was actually in the business and could hook them up with something on the cheap. But he was decent with plumbing, passable with simple electric issues, and honestly fantastic at spackling stuff.

Before the evening was out, he and Matt had fixed issues in six apartments on two different floors, had been fed by no less than three families, and were back where they started.

“You are a good man, Señor Foggy,” Elena told him, patting his cheek.

“Thank you. I’m… I try to be, anyway,” said Foggy, blushing at her words – probably harder than they warranted, but…

It felt nice, to hear praise like that, to know he was doing good for people. It was a feeling he’d never had at L&Z, and he was hit by a sudden surge in his surety that Matt had been right all along. This was what they were meant to be doing. Helping their community. Sticking up for the people who had no one else to turn to. Buoyed by that thought, he smiled. Getting out and actually accomplishing something for people really _was_ what he’d needed to perk up his mood – hopefully Karen, out with Ben, was feeling the same way. And Matt…

He glanced over to check on his best friend, and found Matt looking just as flushed and fulfilled as Foggy felt. He was chatting pleasantly with the little girl of one of Elena’s neighbors. The girl’s parents were, Foggy had gleaned between the rapid-fire Spanish that went completely over his head, doctors from Mexico, although the husband was working a night shift security job. Only his wife had been able to get a hospital position, and not even a very good one. Foggy wondered if she and the Devil’s Claire knew one another.

In any case, it was heart-meltingly sweet to see Matt interact with a kid – he could be awkward around them sometimes, but he was always so gentle and kind. No wonder everybody was always so gone on him, Foggy thought with a sigh. He couldn’t bear to pull Matt away from his new little admirer, so he helped Elena with her dishes and tried to overcome their language barrier as best he could in the process. When it was well and truly time to get going, Foggy walked Matt home.

“I’d say I fulfilled the terms of our pinkie swear,” he teased when they were at Matt’s door.

The bright smile that unfurled on Matt’s face outshone the light of the billboard beaming through Matt’s windows.

“I’d say you did.”

And then Matt offered up his fist. Grinning, Foggy bumped it with his own. They said their goodnights, and Foggy headed back to his own apartment, whistling happily and swinging his toolbox along at his side.

* * *

The next morning, refreshed, he made it in to work in record time. He still didn’t beat Karen, but by the unfamiliar flannel blanket draped over the couch, he figured it was because she hadn’t actually commuted. Still, that was part of the reason he’d gotten the couch in the first place, so he greeted Karen like usual and didn’t comment.

He spent the first twenty minutes of the day sorting through the firm’s bills and trying to decide which ones absolutely needed paying pronto and which ones could fall by the wayside for just a teensy bit. He was startled from his sorting by their front door opening, followed by a gasp.

“Oh my god!” Karen cried. “Matt! What happened?”

Foggy poked his head out of his office and his breath caught too. The entire left side of Matt’s face was an ugly, mottled purple. His cheekbone was swollen, and even the lenses of his glasses couldn’t hide the ugly, jagged nick in his eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” Matt said gently, putting up his hands in what he probably thought was a calming manner, but which only served to draw attention to the bandage wrapped around his right palm.

“Of all of your many and varied incorrect usages of the word ‘fine’, buddy, I think this one is the most incorrect of all,” argued Foggy, stepping out into the main room and gently gathering the thankfully-unbruised right side of Mat’s face into his hand. “Jesus Christ, Matt. Can I. Do we have any ice here, or I can get some from next door, the finance office is ritzy enough that they must have ice. Karen—”

“I already iced it,” interrupted Matt.

He placed his left hand on Foggy’s arm and rubbed a thumb over Foggy’s thrumming pulse point. Which was. Not an appropriate time for one’s heart to skip a beat, at all, but hey, that’s exactly what Foggy’s idiot heart decided to do. His mouth went a little dry as he realized how close they were to one another and took a hurried step back.

“Right, well. At least tell us what the hell happened to your face. Aliens? Delivery bike? Rogue robots?”

“Mugger,” Matt explained sheepishly. “I was on my way in this morning and decided to take a shortcut. He was going for this woman and I kind of… Got in the way.”

“Jesus, Matt,” sighed Foggy.

Whether ‘got in the way’ was a genuine accident or whether it was yet another case of Matt ‘oops sorry I didn’t see you there what with being so blind and all’ Murdock tripping some douche with his cane – this time with bonus pocket knife, if the bandaged hand was any indication – was difficult to tell. But he wasn’t dead or anything, so. At least they all had that much luck.

Still, the wounds Matt _did_ have were bad enough. If it wasn’t _completely_ bonkers he’d almost think… But no. Foggy knew the Devil’s injuries well, and Matt’s didn’t match them. Plus, the nights Foggy saw the Devil tended to turn into mornings where Matt looked well-rested, and Foggy was pretty sure that no matter how good his lovin’ was that the Devil went into whatever real job he had looking like a train wreck.

He shook off the ridiculous notion and promptly forgot about it as he considered that this wasn’t the first time he’d seen Matt walk in looking not so great. Foggy thought back, and was troubled to find that in his memory Matt’s exhaustion, the little bruises and scrapes, had begun months ago – around the time they’d left Landman and Zack. Matt had seemed so sure— No, had _been_ so sure, Foggy at least knew his best friend that well, of their path. And Foggy had been so busy wrestling his own misgivings into submission and worrying about their financial situation that he hadn’t stopped to think about the stress that stepping out on their own had heaped on Matt’s shoulders too, regardless of the fact that it had been his idea.

_I’ll do better_ , Foggy promised himself.

* * *

It was a beautiful night. The stars were shining out the window despite the light pollution, and Foggy had an armful of lithe, pretty vigilante.

“Has anyone ever told you your abs are impossible?” he asked, leaning back a little to trail a finger down the Devil’s chest and watching with interest as a shiver wracked through him.

“You have,” teased the Devil. “Twice tonight already.”

One of his warm, scarred hands pressed Foggy’s hovering palm flat to his chest.

“Third time’s the charm,” Foggy replied absently, by rote, distracted by the feel of so much skin.

The joke earned him a kiss and a teasing pinch to the belly. It was a normal night, Foggy thought contentedly. Except then something happened that had never happened before.

The Devil reached up towards his mask, like he was going to take it off.

“You don’t have to,” Foggy promised gently, although his heart was thundering in his chest with anticipation. “It’s ok.”

“I know,” replied the Devil with the slightest of smiles. “But… I want to. For you.”

Slowly, he reached up and eased the black fabric off his face. Foggy’s breath caught in his throat, because that was— Those were Matt’s dark, unfocused eyes, that was Matt’s sweaty, tousled hair. Each familiar feature was highlighted and caressed by the fingers of moonlight streaming through the bedroom window – utterly unmistakable.

“Foggy,” he said, voice his own and no longer the Devil’s rough, low tones.

“Matt? What, how—”

A single finger pressed lightly against Foggy’s lips to shush him.

“It’s ok,” Matt promised, looking sweet and affectionate. “You want it, right?”

“I.” Though he stammered, the answer was obvious. “I do, I always have, but Matt, how—”

“Later. Later, please?”

As if he’d ever been able to say no when Matt hit him with a ‘please’. The shirtlessness and earnest expression were just plain overkill.

“Yeah, ok, later,” Foggy agreed fuzzily.

The utterly sweet look on Matt’s face shifted in an instant to the sly, cocky grin he usually wore when he was absolutely certain the object of his flirting was going to go home with him. Foggy had seen it a hundred times in a hundred bars, and it was unfairly hot enough then. Having it aimed right at him was practically concussive. To be fair to Matt, Foggy was already in bed with him so he was actually pretty much a sure thing.

“Good,” Matt murmured. “Good, that’s. I promise, I’ll explain it all later.”

He ducked down to steal a kiss, then slid a hand, teasingly slow, past Foggy’s waistband.

“ _Matt_ —”

Foggy woke with a start, sweaty and breathless and still hard in his sweatpants.

“Fuck,” he hissed, rolling over to give a halfhearted effort at smothering himself with his pillow. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ —”

* * *

For the first ten minutes after he was done freaking out, Foggy tried to convince himself it was meaningless. Just dream fluff. Just his subconscious getting his wires crossed. It wasn’t as if he didn’t _know_ he had feelings for Matt. But that didn’t mean…

Well. Ok, yeah, it did. The truth was painfully obvious. Only an idiot could misconstrue a dream so ham-fisted. It was practically screaming it from the rooftops:

Whoever the Devil was, Foggy was never going to want him as much as he wanted Matt.

And, honestly? He’d been deluding himself thinking it would end any other way. Foggy had always been pretty sure you could be in love with more than one person at a time, so it wasn’t so much that it would be impossible to feel as strongly for someone else as he did for Matt… But the thing was that…

When he pictured his future, he realized, it was still one shared with Matt. The sign Foggy had been scraping together money for since he and Matt walked out the doors of L&Z was going to say ‘Nelson and Murdock’ – solid and etched and permanent. Out of everything, that dream was unbreakable.

How serious could Foggy really be about the Devil when his mind and heart still turned to Matt first, before anyone or anything else? And it wasn’t that he didn’t think he could balance work and friendship with Matt with a romantic relationship with someone else, but they would _need_ to be in balance – of equal importance, equally open and honest. And at the moment? It was still unequal.

No matter how strongly Foggy felt, no matter how much he loved the Devil… It was hard to imagine a future with a man whose name he still didn’t know, whose life he couldn’t share except after dark. Their relationship was fantastic for what it was, but the anonymity was a hindrance to creating anything deeper. And Foggy cared about the Devil, pushing him for intimacy he wasn’t ready for was the last thing Foggy wanted to do. It wouldn’t be fair to him.

And… And Foggy had loved Matt for years. There really couldn’t be a comparison. Loving Matt was built into Foggy down to his cells. That wasn’t fair to the Devil either.

It was pretty clear from the way things had gone, especially on the night Foggy had met Claire, that the Devil wasn’t getting what he needed out of their relationship. Which was… It hurt, a little, finally acknowledging it, but… Foggy wanted the best for him. Maybe, in the end, neither of them were really getting what they needed. It wasn’t about wanting Matt, not really. That was just the background radiation of Foggy’s life. He didn’t need Matt to fall in love with him, Matt’s friendship was enough. It always had been. But maybe it was time to stop trying to pretend he wasn’t as in love with Matt as he was. Time to finally try and work through those feelings and decide what to do with them once and for all.

So. Things… Things just weren’t going to work out. And Foggy was a pragmatist. He knew he’d have to let the Devil go before either of them got more hurt by that then they already would be. He worked through his argument – through his case – as he got dressed, as he ate his breakfast and barely tasted it. He practiced angles and apologies through a mouthful of toothpaste, looked himself in the face and steeled his nerves for what had to be done. There wasn’t anything else for it. There wasn’t.

And it wasn’t like he was going to… To just drop the Devil like a hot potato. He still loved the guy, after all. Still wanted to know he was safe. Still wanted to take care of him. It was only a step back, not a push away.

It didn’t mean Foggy was happy about his decision, though. He brooded over it all day at work, enough that Karen bought him a danish and Matt kept wandering into Foggy’s office – ostensibly to ask questions about work, but really to unsubtly check up on him. And he appreciated it, he did. Tried to muster up smiles and cheer to reassure them. Things would be ok. No matter what happened with the Devil, at least the three of them would still have each other.

That thought was about the only thing that got him through the work day. He stumbled home in a daze afterwards, waving off Karen’s offer to stop at Josie’s for drinks. On autopilot, he heated up some leftovers from the fridge and ate them. Then he parked himself next to the window by his fire escape and waited.

There was no guarantee that the Devil would stop by. But Foggy, filled with a horrible and restless energy, couldn’t think of what else to do with himself. He didn’t think he’d be able to get to sleep.

Just after nine, there was a familiar knock at the window, and Foggy’s heart sank even as a wave of relief washed through him. _Now or never_ , he thought, and slid the window open.


	12. The Problem With Secret Identities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Devil of Hell's Kitchen gets his heart broken.

Foggy was not normally shy about sharing his thoughts and feelings – in fact, he was something of a chronic oversharer. Which was why the way he attempted to cover up whatever was bothering him hit Matt so hard. They were best friends. Foggy had always been able to tell Matt anything. And yet… He kept quiet.

Matt’s paranoia itched at the base of his skull all day. It was only when Foggy brushed off Karen’s offer to go to Josie’s that another idea hit him.

Maybe it wasn’t that Foggy was keeping quiet because he didn’t feel like he could tell Matt what was wrong. Maybe he _had_ to keep it secret. Maybe whatever he had to say, it was something he needed to say to the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

But what? They were all working on taking down Fisk, it wasn’t like any revelation Foggy had about the case couldn’t be shared with Matt and Karen. Was Foggy going to finally ask to see beneath the mask? It was a troubling thought, but… Matt was good at being distracting. He could deflect if he really had to, keep Foggy’s mind off it a little longer. Just until things settled down. Until it was a good time, until he could come up with a watertight argument for why Foggy shouldn’t punch him in the face and dump him and turn him in to the cops.

But Foggy wouldn’t—of course he would never do those things. Well, the dumping, maybe, but. They were still best friends. Foggy wouldn’t put Matt in danger, even if he was really mad about all the lies. He wouldn’t do it to someone he disliked, so he definitely wouldn’t do it to Matt. No matter what the creeping, worried little voices at the back of Matt’s head said. Foggy wasn’t like that. Foggy was good.

There was nothing to fret about.

Still, Matt’s hands were shaking that evening as he pulled on his mask. He had to take three deep breaths to steady himself before he headed out into the night. There were no sirens, no cries for help, and he was thankful. Selfishly thankful, that he wouldn’t have to choose between the tension vibrating through him and his mission to protect the city.

As soon as Matt reached Foggy’s window, he rapped his gloved knuckles against the glass. From inside, he could hear the jump in Foggy’s heartbeat. Something about the sound made him uneasy, but Matt ignored it. He already knew there was something on Foggy’s mind. Of course he’d be a little jumpy –  Foggy wasn’t good at holding things in, that was all.

“Hey,” Matt greeted softly as the window slid open.

“Hey,” came the reply, full of nerves, as Matt ducked inside.

And he wanted, he needed to just. To ground himself, to… Just, to _something_. But when Matt leaned in to kiss Foggy, Foggy pulled away. Stepped back, his heart jumping again.

“We should… I need to talk to you about something.”

It was going to be the mask. Matt could feel it. Foggy was going to ask him to take off the mask.

“What?” Matt urged, smiling to try and break the tension. “I feel like you’re about to tell me you’re pregnant and I’m the father.”

The joke did pull a laugh from Foggy, but it wasn’t the nice, loud, full-bodied one Matt loved. It sounded strained, gutted.

“I…”

“… Foggy…?”

“I’m sorry. We need to... We need to stop doing this.”

“I… I don’t understand,” Matt said slowly.

“This relationship,” answered Foggy. “We need to… I just can’t…”

And that’s when it finally sunk in. What was happening, what Foggy meant.

“You’re breaking up with me,” realized Matt, hoping desperately that he was wrong.

“It’s not about you,” Foggy assured him hurriedly. “Or what you do. It’s… I’m in love with someone else. And I know we went into this like it was a casual thing, but it’s not casual at all. And me feeling this way about someone else? That’s not fair to you. I can’t… I can’t keep doing this.”

“I don’t mind,” Matt found himself saying, and they were perhaps the most pathetic words to ever come out of his mouth, but.

But Foggy was leaving him. Was breaking up with him, and Matt hadn’t even— _done_ anything! He hadn’t fucked it up somehow with his many, many issues or his lying or his secret identity. He’d just… Lost from the get-go. And it wasn’t fair! How had Matt acquired such a serious rival without even knowing it? Foggy was his best friend, wouldn’t he have told Matt if he was in love with someone, even if he wasn’t willing to tell the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?

Apparently not.

There had been a distance between them, growing, since Matt had started going out at night. He knew that. Knew it was a cost to what he did – that in order to keep his secret, there would need to be some give and take. But suddenly he wondered how bad the state of his friendship with Foggy had truly gotten. Wondered if maybe he wasn’t losing his boyfriend and his best friend all in one fell swoop even without his lies coming to light.

“Well you should mind,” Foggy said sharply. “I definitely do. You are worth so much more than… I just, I just want you to have someone that can really make you happy.”

Matt shook his head.

“You do make me happy.”

Then Foggy’s warm hands were cradling his face.

“Maybe I do now,” he said softly. “I hope I have. But… Someday I think this wouldn’t be enough for you. You’re beautiful. You’re amazing, more amazing than I could have ever imagined. And you deserve somebody who only has eyes for you, someone that you feel you can trust your name and face to without hesitation. I want that for you, so much. And I’m sorry I can’t be that person.”

Matt struggled to breathe as his heart broke in his chest. The words and the tone were so tender, but they hit him like knives, and he found himself gripping frantically at Foggy’s forearms. Trying to hold those beloved hands where they were, to keep Foggy from stepping back and putting distance between them.

To have Foggy love the man in the mask, the Devil, had been like having Foggy reach between his ribs and touch his soul – Foggy had finally seen the secret parts of himself that Matt hid away and had treasured them. Treasured Matt as he truly was.

“I’ll tell you,” Matt promised, although the words trembled on his lips. “I’ll take off, I’ll take off the mask. Please.”

Foggy sighed wearily.

“No. I can’t let you do that, not like this. To try and get me to stay?” Slowly, soothingly, Foggy’s thumbs rubbed back and forth across Matt’s cheeks. “You’d regret it. I’m not saying this to manipulate you or push you to do something you’re not comfortable with. It’s not an ultimatum. I just—”

“You don’t want me anymore,” Matt concluded numbly.

Foggy flinched, but Matt’s hold on his arms kept him from retreating.

“No! That’s not what I— Shit, I’m just completely messing this up,” lamented Foggy, sighing and pressing his forehead to Matt’s masked one. “I swear, it’s not— I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“ _This_ hurts.”

Even pressed up close together, with all of Foggy’s warmth under his hands, Matt still felt cold. There were no arguments to make, nothing he could think to say that would be convincing.

“I know. And I’m sorry. But it would hurt worse later, if I let this keep going. Let it get more serious.”

It could never have gotten more serious, at least not on Matt’s end. He’d been an idiot in love with his best friend for years. He was already completely gone even while Foggy was just in the beginning stages of infatuation. But there was no way for Matt, or rather the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, to tell him that without revealing his identity. And Foggy didn’t want that.

Matt didn’t want it either. Didn’t want to risk Foggy walking away from Matt Murdock as well as the Devil.

“It’s your choice,” he managed to choke out, and finally found the strength to pry himself away from Foggy.

Silence fell between them, then, although it was never silent to Matt. Not really. He could hear the way Foggy’s breath caught, the slight rustle of fabric as he shifted his weight. It all told a story of more to come, of more Foggy wanted to say.

“I know I don’t have any right to expect…” Foggy began at last, and even as hurt as he was Matt wanted to tell him that he had every right, that he’d always have every right, because Matt loved him. “But I still care about you. You can still come here if you need help or if you just need a friend. I’d like to be able to know you’re safe, that you have somewhere to go.”

It was an offer that was kind and distressing at the same time, and Matt had no idea how to articulate those feelings to Foggy. All he could do was nod. And anyway, wasn’t it a good thing, Foggy distancing himself from the man in the mask? Wouldn’t he be safer? Hadn’t Matt thought that? But it didn’t feel like a good thing. It felt like the first step to losing Foggy the way he’d always worried he would. Matt was used to people pulling away, leaving him when he wanted too much, when he showed them what they meant to him. Foggy had always been the exception to the rule, but even he probably had his limits. Maybe Matt was finally finding them.

“I’m. I should. I should leave,” he said, not even able to acknowledge Foggy’s words.

Matt was out the window before any more could be said, before his heart could take any more abuse.

He stayed out all night, bloodying his fists on the city.


	13. The Bad Decisions Drinking Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy comes in to work to find Matt all torn up because he got dumped. Obviously a bros' night in will help matters!

Foggy didn’t sleep well that night. After his— after the Devil had fled out the window, all Foggy could think about was whether he’d take proper care of himself. About whether he’d be reckless. What if he got injured, or killed, or…

But he’d done the right thing in the end, Foggy told himself. Letting the Devil be a replacement for what he wanted with Matt was wrong, no matter what any stupidly self-sacrificing vigilantes had to say about it. Foggy really, really liked the masked idiot and essentially stringing him along, when he couldn’t picture a real future with him, was just…

Foggy couldn’t do that, not with how much he cared about the guy. And there was no way the two of them could be the no-strings-attached kind of friends with benefits he might have otherwise suggested they try to become – the Devil cared too deeply for that, and it wasn’t like Foggy could exactly shut off his own feelings. A clean break was really the only safe route.

It didn’t mean Foggy wasn’t dragging his feet a little when he went into work the next day.

But as bad as he looked, Matt was a hundred times worse. As much as he tried to hide it – straightening up immediately when Foggy stepped into the office and announced himself – his whole posture screamed defeat. His lip was split again, his knuckles were raw enough that he’d clearly gone way too many rounds with the punching bag at Fogwell’s, and the expression he shot Foggy was the palest, most shattered little thing Foggy had ever had the misfortune of calling a smile.

It was a total bolt from the blue. When Foggy gave Karen a questioning look and jerked a thumb towards Matt’s office, she just shrugged helplessly and shook her head, troubled. So, no hints from her, then. Foggy contemplated it uneasily as he moved to the kitchenette and poured a cup of coffee into Matt’s red mug. There was a lot going on in their professional lives that wasn’t exactly great, but it was more likely something personal. Or rather, some _one_ personal. Still, while Matt had been pretty secretive when it came to concrete details about his newest girlfriend, he’d seemed really happy with her. Deliriously happy, in fact, enough to brighten up their whole office even though they were making next to no progress on Mrs. Cardenas’s case or on putting Fisk away.

So why…?

Foggy froze in the doorway of Matt’s office, and his heart sank.

“Hey, buddy, got you some coffee.”

“Thanks, Fog,” came the tired reply.

With a quick glance at Karen – who was all but silently pleading with him to ‘fix this, he’s your best friend, you’ve gotta be able to fix it, right?’ – Foggy nodded and then closed the door behind him. Matt wasn’t great at talking about his feelings or personal issues at the best of times. Doing it with an audience was a total no-go.

“Bad breakup…?” Foggy asked gently, nudging Matt’s arm and guiding his hand to the cup of coffee Foggy had poured for him.

The poor guy looked like he needed about ten more where that came from, probably with a splash of whiskey.

“I got dumped,” Matt replied with a bleak little laugh.

He didn’t take a drink of his coffee, though, just rubbed his thumbs back and forth along the rim of the mug. Foggy hadn’t seen Matt so broken up over a girl since… God, since Elektra in college. Settling on the edge of Matt’s desk, Foggy rubbed his hands on his pant legs and sighed.

“I’m so sorry, Matt. That… God, that sucks. I’m here,” he offered, “you know, if you want to talk about it.”

“I. Thanks, Fog. It’s…” Matt shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. I guess… I guess there was someone else.”

“She _cheated_ on you?” demanded Foggy, and his whole chest went tight with anger.

Who the hell would cheat on Matt? He was going to track down this chick and give her a piece of his mind! He was—

“No!” Matt corrected hurriedly, setting down his coffee cup so hard it sloshed over a little and fumbling for Foggy’s hands. “No, it’s. It wasn’t like that. I… There was no cheating. I just wasn’t enough.”

“You—” Foggy sucked in an angry breath. “You’d be enough for anyone. _Anyone_ , Matt, you… She doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

Another weak smile crossed Matt’s face.

“Thanks, pal.”

“No, come on, you don’t have to thank me for that. It’s just the truth.”

And it was. Matt was… God, Matt was the most amazing person Foggy had ever known. So sure of himself, smart and brave and always willing to do the right thing. But also sweet and reserved and funny. Sure, Matt had his flaws and his problems, but so did everyone. None of it had ever bothered Foggy. Matt was contradictory in all the best ways. Hard and soft and just… Matt. Anybody who would pass him up, for _anyone_ , was an idiot.

Foggy’s heart sank again. He hoped the Devil had someone in his life who would think the same thing about him. Who would think Foggy was an idiot for passing him up. Who’d be there for the Devil, where Foggy would probably only make things worse.

“You,” Matt ventured, and wet his lips anxiously. “You seem a little down today too, Foggy.”

The observation pulled Foggy out of his own guilt.

“I broke up with the guy I’ve been seeing,” he admitted, though he wasn’t stupid enough to say, _because I’m in love with you_.

Especially not right after Matt had been dumped. Jesus. Piling Foggy’s own inconvenient feelings and the burden of rejecting them on top of the pain Matt was already feeling after being rejected himself? Foggy wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

“Why?” Matt asked, sounding strangely urgent about it. “I thought. It seemed like you really liked him.”

“I did. I mean, I do, but…” Foggy sighed, combed a hand through his hair.

“But…?” pressed Matt.

“I really don’t think hearing about this is gonna improve your emotional state, buddy. Let’s just… I’m sure there’s something happier we can talk about.”

Except then Matt got that tentative, vulnerable look on his face. The one Foggy could never say no to, the one that had been his undoing from the first day they met. Foggy had done stupid shit for that face, and he would probably continue to do stupid shit for it for the rest of his pathetic life.

“Please?”

Blowing out a sigh, Foggy scrubbed his hands across his face. Obfuscate would be the name of the game, apparently.

“I just think,” he said slowly, choosing his words with care, “that he deserves someone who’s, you know, one hundred percent in love with him. Someone who doesn’t… He shouldn’t be a second choice, he’s too good a guy for that.”

Matt nodded, finally took a sip of his coffee, and for about three seconds Foggy was able to fool himself into thinking the topic would be dropped.

“If he’s your second choice,” Matt said thoughtfully, his face tipped down towards his mug, “I guess that means you have a first one?”

“Matt—”

“Is it Karen?”

Foggy sighed, massaging his temples to try and stave off the stress migraine building there.

“ _No_ , Matt, it’s not Karen. Look. I really, _really_ don’t want to talk about it. Ok?”

The irritation in his voice was the last thing he wanted to direct at Matt, especially given the circumstances, but it was just— Matt wasn’t giving them an out, wasn’t letting it drop when he should. Not that the way his shoulders hunched when he was finally cowed into submission by Foggy’s frustration made Foggy feel any better. No, that just made him feel like he’d kicked a puppy. An adorable, blind baby husky or something. Fuck.

“Sorry,” Matt murmured.

“No, it’s… _I’m_ sorry,” said Foggy, sighing. “I shouldn’t have snapped. I just don’t want to talk about it, buddy, that’s all. I’m… I’m not mad at you.”

“Still…”

Foggy got to his feet.

“Still nothing, Matt,” he said very firmly. “Come on, we’re bright young lawyers with a kingpin to take down, right? Let’s hop to it!”

It didn’t help much, but it did at least help, Foggy was pretty sure. Matt seemed a little less upset than he had been. If the breakup was an Elektra-level disaster, that was about all Foggy could hope for in the moment.

“Yeah,” agreed Matt. “Yeah, sounds good.”

* * *

“Did you find out what’s wrong?” Karen drew Foggy aside to ask, later.

Foggy felt a warm wash of love for her.

Matt was attractive, had always had lots of admirers, but so few of them throughout the years had taken much interest in his emotional wellbeing. Or, really, anything but his pretty face and spectacular ass. People were shallow like that, and sometimes the reality of Matt’s blindness put them off. Assholes, the lot of them. Between that sort of thing, and envy, and Matt’s outwardly reserved nature, he had trouble making close friends.

Foggy at least prided himself on having always seen Matt’s hidden but sparkling potential for friendship. He was glad Karen saw it too.

“Nothing life-threatening, at least. Or Fisk-adjacent. His girlfriend dumped him,” explained Foggy, rubbing Karen’s shoulder. “He was pretty serious about her, so he’s taking it kinda rough.”

Karen’s expression fell, and she squeezed her eyes shut briefly.

“Do you think there’s anything we could do? To cheer him up?” she asked.

“I mean, we can’t fix it or anything, he was so gone on her – it’ll just have to run its course.” The irritated, stubborn look on Karen’s face made Foggy smile. “But,” he offered, “I’m gonna cajole him into a bros’ night to keep him from sulking. And as for afterwards… In my experience, you can’t go wrong when it comes to Matt if you’ve got a handmade pastry or two and something to keep him busy.”

“Well, I do make a mean cannoli, in addition to the virtue lasagna.”

“And I’ve got a friend or two in the county clerk’s office that owes me a favor,” Foggy adds. “Fisk’s supposedly a local boy, I’m sure I can get something dug up on him for Matt to sink his teeth into.”

Karen’s grin was so bright it lit up the room. Pleased, Foggy offered her a fist to bump. She threw her arms around him instead, and he was just fine with that too.

* * *

Foggy played at being goofy, and, ok, he could bumble through things and be socially awkward just as well or probably better than the next guy… But he wasn’t stupid. He could strategize, and he had enough experience navigating the minefield of Matt Murdock’s Capital-I Issues to know pretty reliably when and when not to push. The breakup didn’t get a mention for the rest of the morning, or during lunch. In fact, Foggy didn’t bring it up until he and Matt were alone – Karen having gone out for an afternoon walk to stretch her legs.

“Supper at my place?” Foggy offered during a lull in their conversation about Elena’s case, fiddling with his softball. “As your bestie, the least I can do is ply you with beer and pizza and let you— you know, trash talk your ex, or wax rhapsodic, or whatever you need to do.”

“I…” Matt frowned, looked conflicted, and Foggy was certain he’d say no and instead insist on going home alone to brood. “Yeah. That sounds… Yeah. Thanks, Foggy.”

“You won’t regret it, buddy. We are gonna get _so_ absolutely plastered, I promise.”

* * *

Foggy was nothing if not a man of his word. They did, in fact, get _so_ absolutely plastered.

After they changed into sweats, per their usual bros’ night routine, Foggy got them a pizza and made sure Matt ate at least two slices before they started in on the cheap whiskey. Matt had the worst habit of not eating when he was upset; a stark counterpoint to Foggy, who maybe ate a little more than usual and _definitely_ drank _a lot_ more than usual when his emotions were out of whack. As long as he and Matt looked after each other, though, they muddled through things ok. Which meant, of course, that as the one doing the looking after at the moment, Foggy held back on his own drinking, enough that he at least possessed most of his faculties.

“So,” he said once they were settled in on his couch – full and tipsy and comfortable – knowing a blasé approach was probably best, “what’s your poison? Cursing her name and shaking our fists? Terrible slam poetry? Drunken viewing of The Notebook?”

“I…” Matt’s brow crinkled cutely in confusion. “I’m. I think… I just wanna _stop_ thinking.”

“That’s what the alcohol is for, Matty,” laughed Foggy, and Matt nodded, very solemnly, as though Foggy had imparted the secrets of the universe to him. “Come on, there’s gotta be something else that’d make you feel better. Anything you want, Matt, just name it.”

With a bit of a struggle, Foggy marshaled his limbs so he could sit on the couch sideways, facing Matt, with his legs crossed. Matt seemed to sense it somehow, and mirrored Foggy’s pose with a tentatively hopeful expression, kneading his own socked feet. His glasses were off, Foggy realized suddenly. When had that happened?

“Anything?”

“Sure, Matt,” promised Foggy, warm with affection. "Anything."

“Just,” Matt slurred, clumsily taking Foggy’s face in his hands. “Then. Just let me…”

He swayed, closer, closer. And then his mouth was on Foggy’s in a warm, wet, boozy kiss. It was utterly surreal. Foggy would tell himself that, later, use it as an excuse for kissing back. The truth was that Foggy was weak and Matt was beautiful and the quiet, hungry noises he made as he pressed closer into the kiss briefly short-circuited Foggy’s higher brain functions.

And the thing was, it would be so easy to just give in, to let Matt keep kissing him. To keep kissing back. Even if he wasn’t what Matt wanted for real, he could be what Matt wanted right now. Just blame it on the alcohol and damn the consequences.

Which would officially make Foggy a huge creep and also the most selfish of all selfish dickheads. He pulled away.

“Whoa, buddy,” he said as lightly as he could manage with blood pounding in his ears and his heart splintering in his chest. “Look I know some people claim they turn gay when they’re drunk but that’s not really a thing.”

Matt reared back a little as though he’d been slapped, and then his face immediately crumpled into something tearful and distressed.

“I’m. I didn’t— I’m sorry, Foggy.”

“Hey,” Foggy soothed, rubbing Matt’s shoulder gently. “Hey, it’s alright. Really. I’m flattered, honestly, especially considering I know firsthand how hot all your girlfriends are. But you are _so_ drunk right now, buddy, like really, _really_ drunk, and you’re not in your right mind. I’d be a terrible friend if I let you do something you’d regret in the morning just because you’re feeling a little heartbroken right now.”

Matt nodded shakily, although his distressed expression didn’t abate.

“Right,” he stammered. “Yeah, I… Right.”

Which meant it would be up to Foggy, the more sober and less emotionally devastated one, to get things back to normal. And there was no way he was going to send Matt out the door when he was so completely sloshed. That was just asking for trouble.

“Come on,” he said, trying for a brighter tone. “Let me get you some water, and you can crash here for the night. I’ll take the couch, ok?”

“You, you don’t have to—”

“Come on, Matt,” teased Foggy, standing up with a groan and heading into his kitchen to get them both glasses of water. “I know what a delicate princess you are. You really want a hangover _and_ my couch springs digging into your back? I think not.”

That at least prompted a shaky laugh from Matt. Foggy counted it a win. With as much coordination as he could muster, being tipsy himself, he managed to get them both a little hydrated and then herded Matt to his bed. There were a few more token protests on the way, of course, because even when drunk Matt was a self-sacrificing little cinnamon roll – but eventually he gave in and flopped over onto the bed face-down, hugging one of Foggy’s pillows and snuffling into it sleepily.

“Thanks, Foggy,” Matt said quietly, muffled a little by the way he’d buried his face in the pillow. “You. You’re my best friend.”

Foggy’s heart simultaneously melted and splintered at the sight.

“You’re mine too,” he replied, and couldn’t have helped the tenderness in his voice if he wanted to. “Night, buddy.”

“Night.”

Foggy closed the bedroom door gently and retreated out to the couch to nurse his bruised feelings.


	14. Words of Discomfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt struggles with having to face the consequences of his drunken actions.

Matt woke to probably his nineteenth-worst hangover ever and the scent of Foggy wrapped around him like a blanket. The latter, pleasant as it was, did not negate the former. It also didn’t negate what an absolute ass he’d made of himself the previous night.

Matt groaned pathetically into Foggy’s pillow.

He wallowed for a few seconds, feeling sick and sorry for himself. Foggy had _pushed him away_.

Logic prevailed eventually, of course. Foggy would _never_ have— He just wasn’t the type to take advantage of someone drunk. And that was a _good_ thing. There was no call to feel shunned. Matt only had a right to feel upset with himself. Because Foggy had no way of knowing that Matt was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen – and hadn’t that been the whole point? – so he had no way of knowing that Matt’s overtures were sincere. That Matt wanted him all the time, not just when drunk and not just as a rebound. Whereas Matt? Matt had known everything, and he’d leveraged his secret identity to basically try to make Foggy give him a second chance even after breaking up with him. Like an _asshole_. Foggy had already told Matt no once as the Devil. He should have kept his distance, should have respected that. But it had been so hard to remember that when he was drunk and full and sleepy, when Foggy was warm next to him and radiating earnest concern. When he’d promised Matt he’d do anything that would make him feel better.

How was anyone supposed to keep from feeling a brain-melting wave of love after something like that? To keep from expressing it in the most straightforward way possible?

No, that wasn’t right. Self-control. Matt was supposed to have more self-control than that. Never mind that any semblance of self-control always vanished the second Foggy entered the equation. He allowed himself another groan into the pillow before he rolled out of the bed to go find out just how badly he’d fucked up.

Foggy was already awake, heartrate a little fast and unsteady, movements clumsy – he hadn’t slept well. Which did not inspire much hope that everything could be easily smoothed over. To settle himself, Matt tried to focus on something, anything else. He let the steady drip of coffee, the scent of it in the air, wash over him. It cleared his headache a little, to purposely focus his senses, although it didn’t settle his stomach.

“Morning, buddy.”

Matt startled.

“Mor—morning, Fogs.” He tried for a grin. “Is that coffee I smell?”

The cupboards clattered.

“Sure is. Ambrosia of the gods,” Foggy said. “You want the black mug or the green one?”

He wouldn’t have sounded obviously awkward to anyone else. But Matt knew Foggy well. The faster and brighter he talked, the more he busied himself, the more awkward he felt. His pulse had spiked the second he greeted Matt, and it still hadn’t completely settled. Matt felt his way over to the table and slumped into a chair, burying his face in his arms – both to hide any telltale expressions that came over his face and to give Foggy space.

“Mmh. Black,” he mumbled.

The sound of pouring coffee was loud enough he could use it to block out all Foggy’s tells for a few seconds.

“Here you go, pal,” said Foggy, nudging a mug up against Matt’s forearm. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

Eventually the siren song of the caffeine was too strong, and Matt lifted his head, put his hands around the mug. For several long, awkward minutes, he and Foggy sat at the table, drinking their coffee. The mounting tension curdled his stomach even worse than his drinking had. In the end, there was no choice. He had to speak. Had to try and apologize.

“Foggy, about last night, I’m _sorry_. I…”

There was a stutter of breath, a moment of hesitation, but then Foggy was patting Matt’s hand.

“It’s ok, Matt. Look, you’ve been really stressed lately, and you were drunk, and lonely, and… I get it. Hey, we’re probably not the first set of BFFs to have a drunken smooch, right? It doesn’t matter,” Foggy said.

No, not said. _Lied_. Matt’s stomach churned. Foggy was lying. It _did_ matter. It had mattered, and Matt didn’t know how to fix that, especially if Foggy wouldn’t admit to being upset about it or… Or uncomfortable over it.

“Right,” Matt agreed numbly. “Right, it doesn’t matter.”

Foggy’s sigh of relief was a knife to the heart.

* * *

They parted ways after a greasy breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon – Foggy to the shower, and Matt back to his own apartment. It was still a work day, after all. And they needed to keep slogging on, no matter how hopeless things seemed. If Matt maybe spent a few extra minutes in his own shower slumped against the wall feeling sorry for himself, at least no one was around to witness it. He finally pulled himself together enough to get through his morning routine and make his way to work.

Karen and Foggy were already in when Matt arrived, and he spent a minute or two in the hall listening to them.

“You look like you partied a little hard last night,” Karen said leadingly. “Is that a good or a bad sign for Matt getting over his ex?”

Her inquiry was followed by choking and sputtering sounds – probably Foggy’s… Breakfast burrito? Matt took a deeper whiff. Yeah. Foggy’s breakfast burrito, going down the wrong pipe. Another bad sign. Foggy only ever ate breakfast twice when he was upset.

“Nothing happened!” Foggy insisted in probably the least believable voice Matt had ever heard in his life.

Despite Matt’s worries, the squeaky, panicked tone – familiar from college days gone by, when Foggy had insisted that no, _of course_ he didn’t have a crush on _Marci Stahl_ , Matt, that would be _ridiculous_ – had him leaning back against the wall next to the door, pressing a hand to his mouth to cover the grin there.

“Well I didn’t think it had, but now… Did. Did you two…? I mean, you _didn’t_ , did you?”

Matt’s pulse jumped in time to Foggy’s. Foggy being embarrassed was all well and good, but bringing his mind back to Matt’s… Indiscretion, was less than ideal. He stumbled a little and managed to get the door open before Foggy could answer.

“Matt! Good morning!” Karen greeted with a tone that was surprisingly collected for the way her heart was pounding.

“Hey, buddy,” added Foggy. “Tie’s a little crooked there.”

Matt waited for Foggy to reach out and straighten it the way he always did, and it took almost thirty seconds to realize it wasn’t going to happen. He cleared his throat.

“Karen, could you…?”

She laughed uncomfortably.

“Yeah, sure, Matt. I’m expecting a raise for this through, haberdashery skills are not on my resume.” There were a couple quick, deft tugs on the knot of his tie, and then Karen smoothed it down. “There. Picture perfect.”

“Thanks,” he told her, and managed to muster a smile. “You’re the best, Karen.”

Afraid the expression would break apart, Matt hurried away to the kitchenette. He barely caught Foggy’s quiet, pained ‘oof’.

“What?” Foggy hissed. “You think Matt wants grease all over his tie?”

Which sounded like a legitimate reason. It did. Except…

“Oh _please_. On any other day you would have set down your burrito and wiped off your hands and _fixed his tie_ , Foggy. Did you guys _actually_ have a drunken bad idea hookup?”

Well. Yeah. Except _that_. Karen was right. On any other day…

“No, Karen, because we do not actually live in a soap opera, no matter the seedy, mob-based evidence to the contrary,” Foggy retorted before taking what sounded like a very large, vicious bite of his breakfast burrito.

* * *

For all that he kept hesitating, kept an awkward distance between them through the morning, Foggy was still comfortingly unsubtle. He hurried out over lunch, claiming he was just going to pick up takeout for them all – but given Foggy’s conversation with Karen the other day, and the reassuring whispers they exchanged at the door, it was pretty clear he was also making a detour to the county clerk’s office. To pick up something, as he’d put it, to keep Matt busy, keep his mind off his breakup. The thought made Matt smile into his mug – full of Karen’s, uh, _very special_ coffee.

“Feeling a little better?” Karen asked, startling Matt from his thoughts.

“I. Yeah, a little.” Matt lifted his head and shot a knowing smirk in the direction of her voice. “Hard to feel down when you and Foggy are working so hard to cheer me up.”

Karen cleared her throat.

“We… Weren’t very sneaky, huh.”

“No, you weren’t. But I appreciate it.”

She settled on the edge of Matt’s desk, and a burst of flowery shampoo filled the air as the shifted her hair over her shoulder.

“Look, Matt…” Karen sighed, shifted her hair again. “This whole thing, with Fisk… It’s all bad enough on its own. Hard enough on its own. Foggy and I both saw how happy your relationship made you. I don’t want to be presumptuous but if you’re struggling, we’re here for you. Foggy and I. It’s the three of us, right? We’re a… We’re a team.”

Her breath was shaky as she finished speaking. Matt’s was too.

“We are,” he agreed roughly. “We’re a team. And we’re going to be ok. All of us. I promise.”

Karen’s breath caught. She stood hurriedly.

“Yeah, we are. We… I’ve got. Mail to sort.”

Matt collected himself as Karen strode back to her own desk. It was another twenty minutes of studiously ignoring one another’s heightened emotional states before Karen, the braver of the two of them, stepped back into Matt’s office and determinedly offered to refill his coffee.

* * *

Foggy’s return was heralded by the tantalizing scent of pork lo mein.

“I’ve returned!” he called when he opened the door, “bearing sustenance and documents!”

Matt laughed, and got up from his desk with a stretch.

“Conference room?” he asked.

“Yup. You take the lead, buddy, I’ll go in after you.”

“And I’ll get the drinks!” Karen added, her footsteps already fading towards the kitchenette.

“Pure mountain fresh tap water,” joked Foggy.

With another laugh, Matt settled into his usual seat.

“Nothing but the best here at Nelson and Murdock.”

“Keep insulting our beautiful office and this mountain fresh tap water is going right on your heads,” Karen sang, before settling three glasses on the table with decisive _clack_ s.

There was no mention over lunch of the documents Foggy had brought back. Matt, happy enough to bask in the presence of his friends and the taste of the food, didn’t even try to bring it up. He waited until their food was gone and the table was cleared and Foggy had set all their empty glasses in the sink.

“So. What was all this about documents?” Matt asked, when Foggy’s steps cleared the conference room doorway again.

“I may or may not have taken a detour to the county clerk’s office to check into Fisk.”

“And?” Karen prompted eagerly.

“Well, Fisk is definitely a Kitchen native. Most of the story he’s put out about himself is pretty easy to verify. I got you a copy of everything I could that I thought might pertain to him, Matt, but it might be a dead end. My guess is that if there’s something shifty about this guy it’s on the business side, not the personal one. But for now, I thought…”

Foggy rustled through his satchel, grabbed out a stack of papers, and set it in front of Matt. Matt traced his fingertips across the Braille on the top page. A birth record, it seemed like.

“Thanks, Fogs.”

It wasn’t much. In fact, it wasn’t really anything – at least not in terms of progress stopping Fisk. But it was a sign that there was still hope. That for all Foggy’s misgivings, for all his hidden discomfort, he still wanted to be Matt’s friend. So he would fix things, Matt decided firmly. No matter what. Be a good friend to Foggy right back. Work on taking down Fisk together. Rebuild the easiness of their relationship that had been shattered by Matt’s drunken idiocy.

* * *

Not that his strategy worked out.

“I’ve got plans,” Foggy said sheepishly, night after night. “Sorry, buddy.”

Normally, all Matt had to do was take off his glasses, fidget with them a bit, and gently imply that Foggy sure had been going out a lot, and Foggy would launch into reassurances, explanations. Would sometimes even cancel his plans or invite Matt along because he didn’t want to, in his words, _neglect his bestie_.

But when it came to Foggy’s most recent spate of absences, this time-honored strategy failed Matt in spectacular fashion. He didn’t even get a comforting pat on the shoulder for his troubles, and whether that was because Foggy was still uncomfortable after Matt had drunkenly kissed him like a moron or because he was just too caught up in whoever he was going out to see, Matt had no idea. He tried not to let his bitterness show.

After all, why wouldn’t Foggy have plans? Why wouldn’t he be off romancing the person he loved more than the Devil, more than Matt? It only made sense. It was how things were supposed to be. Foggy was always meant to go off and find someone actually worthy of him, someone who never lied to him or put him in danger – no matter how many times Matt daydreamed otherwise. And most times, he could convince himself that he believed that, that he could be happy for Foggy. But what he couldn’t do under any circumstances was witness it.

At least it finally gave him the necessary willpower to stay away from Foggy while in the mask.

He turned his mind wholly back to Fisk, to taking him down. The Russians were gone, to a man – Matt had checked. Thoroughly. Spent nearly a week searching and found only empty crime scenes, picked clean. He was, frankly, unwilling to go up against the Yakuza branch he’d fought with Stick, not except as a last resort. Fisk’s front was impenetrable, and even if it weren’t, breaking it down would only be possible if they found a legal thread to pull on – something better-suited to Matt’s daytime persona.

It left only one avenue of approach. One place to check for a weak link: the heroin smuggling operation.


	15. A Little Bit Reckless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy runs around the city getting into things he shouldn't.
> 
> or
> 
> If Matt had any idea what Foggy was actually doing during this chapter he would be screaming internally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Augh. This one gave me so much trouble, you guys. This is where the plot really starts to go off the rails from what's in the show, so... Bear with me, I guess? Hope the new twists and turns seem plausible -- but if not, well. We all know you're here for the pining, anyway, right? Lol

Foggy had told Matt that everything was ok, that their kiss hadn’t mattered. But the truth was, it _did_ matter. It had completely thrown him out of the semi-comfortable stasis of their friendship. Made him second-guess everything he did in relation to Matt because… Because, well… Had the kiss meant that Matt sort of already knew Foggy had feelings for him? Or would reacting too strongly to the mention of it give him away? There was no way to ask without completely spilling the beans. But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was that Foggy couldn’t even bring himself to touch Matt at all, let alone in the casual, easy way that had characterized their friendship before. He couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss. But he knew, had known he had to push through it even before Karen’s light scolding. Because Matt was his friend, because Matt was the kind of guy who needed someone like Foggy around to jostle his shoulder and fistbump him and ruffle his hair and— just, all those quick little points of contact Matt had gotten used to going without sometime during his tragic backstory.

But doing something wasn’t always as easy as knowing you had to.

Every move he made just felt… Forced.

And, really, he needed to get his idiot brain in check first, before hanging out with Matt alone again would be a good idea. Or so he justified it to himself. Because after all, it wasn’t as if there was basically a million reasons Foggy needed to shove his feelings aside and be a freaking adult about it or anything – like, say, Matt’s recent breakup and/or penchant for showing up to work injured. _Oh, wait_.

Basically, Foggy was being the literal worst best friend ever and he didn’t know how to stop.

Even more horrifically stupid than all that, though, was that _Matt_ had been the one to kiss _him_. In any other situation, if it had been literally anyone on Earth except for Matt, Foggy would have taken that as a sign. Would have sucked it up and just asked, _hey, so, would you perhaps still be interested in kissing me in the cold and sober light of day? It’s cool if not, but I just thought I’d ask._

But it _was_ Matt. And as much as Foggy couldn’t forget the kiss, he also couldn’t forget the look that had come over Matt’s face whenever he’d talked about his now-ex. It was a look of total peace, of pure 100% grade-A true love. Soft and quiet and beautiful in a way that—

Well. The point was, you didn’t just _get over_ someone who made you smile like that.

So. Foggy had no chance, and he needed to return to carefully bottling up his feelings so that he could then return to being a good friend. But in the meantime, he avoided Matt like the plague, and threw himself into pretty much anything that kept him busy. More repairs to Elena’s building. Running errands for Bess and her All-Knowing Old Lady Poker Ring. Helping out his family at the shop. Working with Tani and Roy to navigate miles of red tape.

And in all that time the Devil never came back. Not that Foggy expected him to, the way he’d fled out the window like his ass was on fire. Still, every night without a knock on his window made his heart sink more.

* * *

It was Tani and Roy that had Foggy occupied on the second Thursday night after The Kiss. Roy had finally given up his fishing crusade and had turned his focus to cooking and cleaning while his sister slogged through endless piles of paperwork and tedious phone calls.

“Is it even going to be worth it?” Roy asked hopelessly, breaking into Foggy’s discussion with Tani about the upcoming pretrial hearing of the arsonist who’d burned their shop down. “All this… Trial business. Will it really help, or just be a waste of time?”

“It’ll be worth it to know he’s off the streets for good!” argued Tani.

“She’s right. This guy’s dangerous. He might take a plea deal, if it’s offered, but I’m guessing it won’t be. And anything settled in court is going to be slow going,” Foggy cautioned. “But… Based on everything I’ve seen, I think there’s a good chance that, you know, justice will be done. You’ve both done your part for the moment. We’ll just have to wait and see how the fire marshals and the courts decide to handle it.”

Roy continued to grumble while chopping onions, but Tani was smart enough to start steering them away from the loss of their shop and back towards rebuilding efforts. She instigated a less-fraught argument with Roy over cucumber vendors, and managed to worm a promise out of Foggy to see if Theo might offer them discounts on deli meat for a while, until they were back on their feet.

* * *

The next day, just past noon, Foggy was three blocks from the office with a bag full of burritos when he paused in the middle of the sidewalk. At first, he wasn’t sure quite why. Then he heard it; the _tap, tap, tap_ of a cane on concrete.

Matt was, of course, far from the only blind person in New York. But they were around one another so often that the rhythmic tapping of a white cane tended to ping on Foggy’s radar as ‘Matt’ rather than ‘someone who’s blind’. It wasn’t Matt, though. Just a guy with short black hair and a backpack, moving down the sidewalk quickly and alone. He passed Foggy, who moved out of the way, then ducked into an alley. The stranger was in sight less than a minute.

So Foggy brushed it off, continued on his way back to the office, didn’t even think about it.

Until it happened again. And again. And again. Never with the same person, although he thought at least a sizable amount of them looked kind of East Asian, and they were all wearing backpacks, all the same brand and color. Which was certainly odd, but… In most cases, Foggy would have just figured that his worries about Matt were making him fixate on things that reminded him of Matt, like the sound of the canes. The instances just seemed more plentiful than usual because he was thinking about them, the way thinking about a specific word seemed to make it suddenly appear everywhere.

Except. Except. Not one of the people looked familiar. And that? That was _extremely weird_.

Because, well. Foggy knew everyone. It was something he prided himself on, a skill he’d honed since childhood; since the days of standing on his tiptoes to stare over the counter at Nelson’s Meats and insist to customers that he was the shop owner. So, although it’d be an exaggeration for him to claim he knew everyone in Manhattan, or even everyone passing through Hell’s Kitchen, he did know almost everyone who made their home in that handful of blocks. To have such a large group of people wandering around the Kitchen that he was totally unfamiliar with? Unheard of.

Still, there was a first time for everything. Even a troupe of… Blind backpack enthusiasts… Suddenly moving to Manhattan. It was probably totally innocent. Really. Even if every big change in the neighborhood in the past several months seemed to have Wilson Fisk’s name all over it. So Foggy didn’t recognize these newcomers himself – it didn’t mean he was totally without options. If he didn’t know someone, chances were Bess’s All-Knowing Old Lady Poker Group did.

Not that he was keen to bring them in on something that had the potential, no matter how unlikely, to lead back to Fisk… But a few offhand questions couldn’t really hurt.

His first stop was Yawen Li, since they lived closest to each other and it wasn’t poker night. She was in the middle of cooking when he came over, but graciously allowed him to stick around and chat her ear off as long as he handed her things off high shelves and generally made himself useful.

“I’ve been seeing a lot of unfamiliar faces around recently,” Foggy mentioned casually, about ten minutes in.

“Have you.”

He cleared his throat.

“Uh, yeah, um. I mean, not a single one looks familiar, and they seem like they’ve only cropped up recently. They walk around wearing backpacks? And they’re all—”

“Blind,” she finished, glancing at him. “They all live on this block, in the same apartment building. Rashid down the hall says they got some kind of bulk deal, all moved in the same day.”

“So you know them?” asked Foggy, startled.

“Know them? I don’t know how anyone could be expected to _know_ them. They do not _socialize_ ,” Yawen said, crossing her arms. “Not even a polite hello or an introduction. There’s at least three dozen of them, and they all keep to themselves. I think they may be from Hebei province, but dialects are hard to read when people go silent the second you’re in earshot. I don’t even know a single one of their names.”

Which was definitely not making it look any less like they were part of a backpack-wearing cult.

“That’s surprising, for you,” Foggy said very calmly, to cover up his mounting unease.

Yawen’s gaze turned sharp. She pointed her spatula at him firmly.

“Franklin. I may not know their names, but I do know those people are into something bad. Something dangerous. They’re nervous for a reason. You had better stay away from them.”

“Come on, do I go chasing trouble?” Foggy asked charmingly.

Yawen was not impressed.

“You know you do.”

And, speaking honestly… She wasn’t wrong. Foggy didn’t try to argue, just helped Yawen finish cooking and had a nice supper with her, her daughter Annie, and Annie’s ten-year-old daughter Mei.

* * *

Needless to say, Foggy did not stay away from the people with the backpacks. Well. No, he did stay away, because stalking random people down dark alleys was a big ol’ creeper move, no matter how potentially mobbed up they were. But he didn’t stop snooping.

In the end, it came down to pure coincidence. He’d gotten lost in thought while walking home one evening, and one of the backpacked possible-cultists-slash-possible-mobsters brushed against him. The bag on his back jostled slightly, and something fluttered to the ground. The movement startled Foggy out of his own head enough to reach down and pick it up. An empty little white packet with a strange red symbol stamped on it – like a question mark, or a coiled snake of some sort. He stuffed it in his pocket and hurried on his way.

Loathe to bring anyone new into it, Foggy eventually turned to Ben, who recognized the symbol on sight as the mark of a new brand of heroin that had been sweeping the streets – Steel Serpent.

So, Yawen had been right. The backpack club was in deep with someone, if they were ferrying drugs across the city. It had to be a gang of some sort. And heroin in particular? Too much of a coincidence, when Ben and Karen had determined that their man at the top – that Fisk – had a faction of heroin smugglers working for him.

“Where did you get this?” Ben asked, and his investigative instincts were spot on if the suspicious squint to his eyes was any indication.

Still, despite Ben’s years of experience, despite that he’d been kind of the unofficial boss of the investigation into Fisk, Foggy waffled with whether to tell him or not. Doris had been getting worse, according to Karen. Ben deserved to be able to focus on his wife, not get dragged further into all the shit surrounding Fisk. And yet, lying didn’t sit well with Foggy either. Ben had trusted him, let him into the investigation. And he could only be a help, in deciding what to do next. Ben had gone up against corruption before, knew how it worked and how to outmaneuver it.

“Ok,” Foggy finally started, fiddling absently with the strap of his watch. “So, the thing is, I know a lot of people.”

“You don’t say,” Ben replied; his voice was flat, but his expression was full of hidden amusement as he waved Foggy on.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Anyway I just, I’ve noticed there were lots of people in the neighborhood lately that I didn’t recognize. So I did a little digging, and one of them dropped that, and—” Foggy took a breath. “And I think this might be Fisk’s heroin operation. I don’t have any proof that Steel Serpent is tied to him, but it could be. And if it is, then he’s using blind Chinese immigrants to smuggle the drugs through the city. And I know that sounds, like, super weird, but it’s possible, isn’t it? Because, look, I… My best friend is blind, I’ve seen the way people _get_ around him sometimes. His disability makes them uncomfortable. They don’t like acknowledging it. If you wanted most people to look away and not notice someone transporting your drugs, having workers with a visible disability like that seems like one way to do it.”

Ben’s hand drifted to his mouth, and he rubbed it thoughtfully. Then, when Foggy was finished speaking, Ben nodded and pulled off his glasses.

“You might make a decent investigative journalist,” he said with a tired smile. “I agree, it’s possible. But like you said, we don’t have any hard evidence these people are tied to Fisk, just your gut instinct. We’ve got to keep digging.”

“Digging how…?” asked Foggy cautiously.

“The old-fashioned way. It’s been a few years since I last went undercover into organized crime,” Ben admitted, a twinkle in his eye. “But maybe one last hurrah couldn’t hurt.”

It made sense, Foggy supposed; the ones who’d probably have the most decent information about gangs were other gangs.

“I’m pretty sure it could hurt,” he pointed out. “A lot.”

“If it helps us bring Fisk’s crimes to light, it’ll be worth it,” said Ben firmly, slipping his glasses back onto his face. “This is the job. I’ll handle it.”

“What if you didn’t have to?” Foggy asked before he’d really thought the words through.

Ben paused.

“I’m listening.”

“I told you I know a lot of people. Well… Not all of them grew up to be upstanding citizens.”

Which would have normally been a joking dig at Brett, but well… It was the truth. Growing up poor in the Kitchen was tough. People didn’t or couldn’t always make good choices. He knew plenty of people with records of some sort. The real question was, did Foggy know anybody in a gang? Well… Actually, yeah. Sort of.

‘Sort of’ because Foggy hadn’t talked to Smitty since the third grade. That didn’t actually stop him, though. After convincing Ben to give him a few days to talk to ‘an old friend’, he walked right into the biker bar owned by the Dogs of Hell with his head held high and his heart drumming wildly against his ribs.

It… Went less well than he would have liked. Pretty much immediately. And not in the getting-stared-at-angrily way. More the getting-snarled-at-and-smushed-face-first-into-a-pool-table way. He was trying desperately to introduce himself and get calm, convincing words out of his airless lungs when he saw a familiar face out of the corner of his eye – the nose was the same, though bigger, and his green eyes hadn’t changed at all.

“Let him go, Leon, I know him,” Smitty said with the well-worn mix of exasperation and fondness Foggy found he elicited in many people.

“Hey, Smitty,” wheezed Foggy.

The biker pressing him into the pool table let up, and Smitty tugged Foggy upright before clapping him hard on the shoulder.

“Frankie Nelson. The hell are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, actually,” Foggy admitted, straightening his tie.

Smitty cocked his head, big arms crossed over his chest.

“What, you’re here to catch up? Jesus. Only you would be dumb enough to still think of somebody you haven’t seen since you were kids as a friend.”

“I, uh. Actually, I had a question. I thought you might be able to answer it.”

“And you thought here was the place to ask?” Smitty demanded, gesturing at the bar around them, full of massive bikers.

Foggy shrugged.

“Wasn’t sure where else to find you. It is, er, kind of private though. Is there somewhere we could…?”

Smitty wrapped a hand around Foggy’s arm and all but dragged him out the back door of the bar. Only once they were alone did he let go.

“Alright. What is it?” Smitty demanded.

“Look, it’s… I wanted to ask if you knew anything about the big heroin players in the city right now. I think one of them is tied up with…” Foggy cleared his throat, lowered his voice. “With Wilson Fisk.”

Even Smitty flinched a little at the name.

“Frankie, are you nuts?” he hissed. “Like are you absolutely off your goddamn rocker? These gangs will chew you up and spit you out, even if you don’t go throwing that name around. I am telling you this for your mama’s sake, and because you were a good kid. Stop. Now.”

And he was right. God, he was so freaking right it was ridiculous, but… Foggy was already in too deep. Already probably on Fisk’s shit-list for helping Karen and taking Elena’s case and just generally being a do-gooder nuisance.

“Please,” he begged Smitty, voice low. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t absolutely _have_ to know, ok? I’m doing this to protect the people I care about.”

Smitty scrubbed a hand over his face and groaned.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine. You wanna get yourself killed, Frankie? Fine.”

“I’m looking for whoever sells Steel Serpent,” Foggy added helpfully.

“Of fucking course you are.”

“Do you know them?”

“Do I—” An aggravated growl spilled past Smitty’s lips. “Yeah. I know about them.”

Still muttering, Smitty tugged a smartphone out of his pocket and jabbed a big finger at the screen until it pulled up a map of midtown Manhattan. Foggy stepped closer, tucked his hair behind his ear and leaned over the screen to get a better look.

“You wanna know about them so bad? Wanna jump headfirst into danger like a fucking— what’cha call ‘em— lemming? Then you go looking for yourself. The ones that sell Steel Serpent, their territory is around here.” Smitty said, tracing a finger around a circumference of four city blocks. “But you didn’t hear that from me. Got it? You mention me or the Dogs to anyone, I’ll make you wish you’d forgot you ever knew me.”

It wasn’t an idle threat.

“Thanks, Smitty,” Foggy said anyway. “I owe you, man.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get outta here.” He shoved his phone back in his pocket and waved Foggy off, but then paused, rubbed a hand over his face. “Just… Don’t take it too far, Frankie.”

Foggy smiled wryly.

“No promises.”

* * *

Foggy, whose stress levels had been climbing the more time he spent lurking on the streets at night, was taking a well-deserved doze in his chair when there was a knock at the office door. Normally he would have let Karen get it, since she was stationed out in their little lobby, but she and Matt had gone to pick up lunch. With a groan, he picked himself up and straightened his collar as he strode over to the door.

“Nelson and Murdock, attorneys at law! Murdock’s out at the moment, but I’m here to—”

He stopped, mouth open, at the familiar, bespectacled face in the doorway.

“Mr. Nelson, I believe?”

Foggy smiled back politely while his blood turned to ice in his veins.

“Yeah, hey. And you’re, uh, James Wesley, right? Something I can help you with?”

Wesley’s cool expression crinkled slightly; the smile that came across his face was handsome but unpleasant. He offered up a sheaf of papers that had been tucked under his arm.

“This is for your client, on behalf of my employer, Mr. Fisk. He’s taken over ownership of Armand Tully’s apartment buildings, and he’d like to make a more lucrative offer to Mrs. Cardenas and her neighbors.”

“Ah. Well. I’ll just take that, then,” Foggy said, cautiously accepting the papers; they were split into two sections – one in plain print and one in Braille. “Thanks.”

He wasn’t sure whether to be glad that they’d done their work with regards to accommodation or to be worried that they’d paid enough attention to Matt that they bothered to accommodate him. With anyone else, it’d be a good thing, no-brainer, but Foggy wanted Matt – and all of them, really – to be as far from Fisk’s mind as possible.

“Of course. Mr. Fisk took a long time to put together this offer; I’m sure it’ll be met with a favorable response from your client.”

“Sure,” agreed Foggy, just to get Wesley to leave, because he wasn’t about to say that he was pretty damn sure that the Hope Diamond itself wouldn’t convince Elena to leave her home.

Except, there Wesley continued to stand. Patiently. Foggy cleared his throat.

“Was, uh. Was there something else?”

He hoped not, but Foggy’s luck of late hadn’t been real great, so…

“Could I come in?”

The mature, I-don’t-suspect-you-of-working-for-a-mob-kingpin answer was yes. The answer Foggy desperately wanted to give was wordlessly slamming the door in Wesley’s face.

“Sure,” he said, forcing a smile and opening the door wider, hand white-knuckled over the doorknob. “Come on in.”

Wesley nodded and paced several steps into the office.

“There was one other thing I wanted to speak about. To you, specifically, Mr. Nelson.”

Yes, because that wasn’t ominous at all. Was it the heroin? Or maybe… Maybe Fisk knew that Foggy had been close to the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Maybe this was a threat, or blackmail, or—

“Me?”

“Yes,” Wesley said, taking slow steps with his hands folded behind his back. “It’s come to my attention that you seem to know the Laurent siblings quite well.”

“Sure, I know Tani and Roy,” agreed Foggy. “What of it?”

“The land which… Formerly contained their shop is also something my employer is interested in purchasing.”

Wow. What a shocker. Especially since he was the one who sent the arsonist to burn it down, probably. Still, Foggy felt honor-bound to try and dissuade Wesley – and through him, Fisk – as much as possible. To try and keep Tani and Roy out of the line of fire.

“Look, Tani doesn’t want to sell, and that’s her prerogative. You get how it is, right? Besides, these little family-owned places are the heart and soul of the neighborhood; they’ve got a lot of people standing with them – so I’m sure they’ll be back on their feet in no time,” Foggy suggested cheerfully, hoping the idea of community support – and of potential community backlash – would be enough to ward Fisk’s evil suit-wearing henchman off.

“That’s certainly a quaint way of putting it,” said Wesley, in a tone that indicated he’d really rather just squish them under his boot. “But given your family I suppose that makes sense. It’s your younger brother who runs Nelson’s Meats, isn’t that right?”

Foggy’s heart just about stopped in his chest, and when it started again it was doing double-time.

“Is this the part where you tell me it would be a shame if something happened to the shop?” he asked, probably because the cold fury building behind his eyes had frozen a few of his brain cells.

Wesley smiled insincerely; his eyes glittered darkly behind his glasses.

“Of course not, Mr. Nelson. As I said, I’m only here to drop off our offer for Mrs. Cardenas personally – seeing as you and your partner are her legal representation – and to ask you to pass on Mr. Fisk’s other... Proposition. It’s very generous, but I’m afraid Ms. Laurent and her brother aren’t exactly receptive. All our attempts at contact have been unreturned.”

“They want to rebuild their shop on that land,” Foggy retorted through gritted teeth. “Not… _Sell it off_ to someone who’s going to use it to build _expensive apartments_. And if you think I want _anything_ to do with your skeevy boss gentrifying my neighborhood, you have no idea the kind of person I am.”

For several breaths, there was absolute silence. Wesley blinked, and his expression flashed to something startled for just a second. And then the mask of implacable calm returned.

“Actually, I think I have a very good idea the kind of man you are, Mr. Nelson. Have a lovely day.”

With that, James Wesley and his creepy-ass serial killer face turned right around and left the office. He didn’t even slam the door on the way out. The dude was like a robot, seriously.

Thankfully, Matt and Karen didn’t return with lunch for another twenty minutes, so Foggy had time to collect himself. Not that he, apparently, did it very well, because Matt had a worried furrow in his brow whenever they spoke for the rest of the day.

* * *

Foggy hadn’t been watching the arson case too closely, more focused on the heroin smugglers, but he did go visit Tani and Roy the next night, after the pretrial hearing.  The proceedings, apparently, had been more than a little unusual.

“The whole place went into an uproar,” Tani described. “He changed his plea midway through. Said he had been hired to set those fires, and he’d give the name of the man who’d hired him in exchange for a lowering of the potential sentence.”

“I guess I’m not surprised he’s trying to cut a deal somehow. Arson in the first degree carries some pretty hefty charges. And considering the circumstances it’s unlikely to be lowered. I heard the couple from the flower shop are still undergoing surgeries for their burns,” Foggy mused, stomach churning. “But if he’s willing to flip on whoever hired him, that can only be good.”

If it really had been Fisk he was working for, then the case against the arsonist might be the big break everyone had been waiting for.

“I hope they both get the maximum,” muttered Tani, nursing a beer. “Fuck ‘em both.”

It wasn’t as if Foggy exactly disagreed. He lifted his own drink and tapped it against hers.

“With any l—”

“ _No_!”

Roy, who’d been watching the TV on silent across the room, stood up so fast he nearly toppled the makeshift coffee table. Tani was right there next to him in an instant.

“Roy? What’s wrong?”

“He killed himself,” Roy said blankly. “The arsonist, he… Things were just starting to get… And he…”

“What?” demanded Tani, snatching away the TV remote from her brother and jammed a finger down on the mute button. “Let me see that!”

Foggy didn’t even have to listen or look to know that it was true. Or at least as close to true as it could be – he had, after all, a sinking feeling that the arsonist’s death was a murder and not a suicide. James Wesley’s smug face swam in front of his eyes as the Laurent siblings broke down in angry tears next to him.

* * *

The death of the arsonist only made Foggy more determined to home in on the heroin. Their crimes to pin on Fisk – who else would have hired the arsonist, after all? – were falling by the wayside one by one. Every new avenue of approach cut off nearly as soon as it presented itself. He was determined to get the jump on this one before it vanished into the darkness too.

In the end, that determination paid off. He finally managed to track one of the carriers back to a warehouse, even after he’d been picked up by a discreet black car. There was a big-looking guard at the entrance Foggy could see, and probably more elsewhere. Security would have to be pretty high for a big operation like that.

And there was no way Foggy was going into a warehouse full of drug dealers who were probably armed to the teeth. He was reckless, but he wasn’t that stupid. There was a line in the sand somewhere, and charging into a drug operation was about a good bus ride past the side of that line Foggy was willing to cross. No, the safest route would be to have someone he knew scout the building first – so they could gauge the level of danger, help Foggy figure out a good next move. Someone who could know what was going on inside without even setting foot on the block. Someone like the Devil.

Too bad Foggy had broken his heart and he was probably never coming back.

Disheartened, Foggy gave up on surveilling the place after half an hour and trudged home in the dark, alone.

* * *

There had been something of an ominous cast over the neighborhood since… Well, pretty much since Karen had fallen into Foggy and Matt’s laps, as it were. Not, like, literally, because. You know. And ok yeah, probably she wanted to literally fall into Matt’s lap, but she was about as out of luck on that as Foggy was. Anyway, the point being, there had been kind of a low-level bad vibe in the Kitchen for a while, but Foggy hadn’t ever felt it imminently.

Until this particular moment, that was.

There was no suspicious noise or shadow, but about halfway through an alley he’d used as a shortcut since he was fifteen, he had the chilling feeling of eyes on him. The nebulous sensation of being followed – and not by something nice like a puppy or a good Samaritan.

He didn’t whip around, even though he desperately wanted to. That was the biggest, dumbest idiot tourist move. No, he had to be subtle. The best thing to do was just… Get someone on the line. You know. Just in case. Maybe he really was imagining things, and he’d laugh about it later when he was safe in his apartment. But for the moment, Foggy wasn’t taking any chances.

His fingers fumbled a little when he heard the sound of several sets of footsteps behind him, but Foggy continued taking long strides and dialing. Then a piercing whistle split the air. Foggy jumped. His phone clattered to the ground and skidded beneath a dumpster, because of freaking course it did.

“Little nervous, Mr. Nelson? We didn’t mean to startle you.”

Whirling around revealed three men in black suits. If it was the middle of the day, Foggy might have made a crack about Men in Black. It was not, however, the middle of the day. And he clocked the guns strapped to their sides quick enough to realize mocking them might be a mistake.

“Ha. Haha, well. Yeah, no big, fellas,” he said, taking slow steps backwards. “I’ll just get out of your way and let you get on with your night.”

“Not so fast.”

The man on the right unholstered his gun and pointed the barrel at Foggy’s chest.

“Look, if you’re gonna kill me, that is… Just a terrible idea. Really,” Foggy cautioned, lifting his hands in a surrender position. “I mean first of all I think you’ve probably got the wrong person, but also murder charges are really not something you want on your record.”

“We’re not here to hurt you, Mr. Nelson, we’re just here as… An escort,” the man at the head of the trio said in a bizarrely reasonable tone. “Our employer wants to speak with you on a matter of some importance.”

His tone was unpleasantly reminiscent of James Wesley.

“Well that is _super_ great,” said Foggy, because his brain was too busy hurriedly charting exit routes to focus on corralling his mouth, “but I’m actually late for an entirely different appointment. Maybe I could pencil your boss in sometime next week?”

“Afraid not.”

Foggy took a slow step backwards, but the distance was closed again in a second by the three goons striding towards him.

“And I don’t suppose no is an option here,” he ventured, “or at least one you’d kindly respect.”

Man in Black number one laughed unpleasantly, which was really all the answer Foggy needed.

“No. You’ll be coming with us either way. But it would be less painful for all of us if you just cooperate.”

The Devil was AWOL. Karen was with Ben. And there was no way the approaching mafia thugs were going to let him call a time-out so he could grope around under the dumpster for his cell to call Brett. There was nobody coming to save him. And so, Foggy allowed himself a good, hearty:

“ _Fuck_.”

But standing around waiting to get shot or kidnapped really wasn’t his style. So he plucked up all his courage, turned tail, and ran for his freaking life.


	16. The Well of Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt rescues Foggy. Madame Gao's heroin lab gets busted. Matt is full of unhappy feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't done a deep scrub for typos on this one but it's 6.9k words long and by god you are going to read it anyway!!
> 
> Whew. Didn't expect for it to stretch out like this, but, hey, more to read, right? By the way, the next chapter after this one will finally give us our Identity Reveal~

The city was never quiet to Matt, not really. Existence, life, was noisy. Heartbeats, breathing, footsteps, conversation. That wasn’t even getting into the artificial noise – cars and coffeemakers and computers, guns and cell phones and TVs.

But there was one sound in particular that could cut through everything else – the sound that had always carried furthest: a call for help. It could be crying, or screaming, or begging. But the panicked, winded chanting of a familiar voice – “Shit, shit, shit!” – did the trick just as well.

_Foggy_.

Foggy was in trouble. Matt rushed towards him over the rooftops, homing in on his pounding heartbeat. It overpowered all other input, so much so that it took several minutes for Matt to realize that there were three sets of running footsteps following in Foggy’s wake. He was being chased. But Matt was still too far away to reach either Foggy or his pursuers. He could only listen and push himself harder to close the distance.

There was some loud clicking, the squeal of an intercom. Shouting. Foggy trying to argue his way into a building and getting cussed at in Spanish. He gave up, apparently, because he started running again. Heading for… Matt paused and tilted his head, then dropped onto the nearest fire escape and hooked a hand over the railing, using it as leverage to leap in a new direction. It was away from the beeline he’d been making to Foggy, but towards what Matt was certain was Foggy’s new goal – an empty, broken-down apartment building that was just put up for sale. They’d complained about it together, a rare return of camaraderie amidst the awkwardness, as likely another potential victim for a Fisk buy.

Foggy zigged and zagged, his pursuers never far behind, but Matt’s hunch proved to be worthwhile. He closed the distance between them rapidly, listening as Foggy jiggled the handle of the door, then smashed something – his satchel? – through a pane of glass in the door. With the click of the lock and a hiss of pain, Foggy made it into the building and his heartbeat went muffled behind brick.

When Matt was within half a block, the scent of Foggy’s blood reached his nose and his body washed hot with rage and cold with fear in quick succession. There wasn’t much. Not enough for a serious wound. Likely it was just the consequence of him slicing himself on the window he’d shattered. His pursuers hadn’t hurt him. But Matt could also smell gun oil, and just because Foggy hadn’t given them a chance to hurt him didn’t mean they wouldn’t try it.

But Matt wasn’t about to let them have an opening.

He dropped to street level right in front of the three men, between them and the empty apartment building where Foggy was holed up. The two on either side jolted back, but the man in the middle hissed and lifted his gun.

“ _Devil_ ,” he snarled.

Matt was certainly feeling like one. Before a shot could be fired, Matt snatched up the wrist of the man in front of him with one hand, and wrenched the weapon away with the other, tossing it over his shoulder. By then, the other two men had regained their bearings. So, Matt shoved the guy he’d just disarmed into one, and snapped a fist into the solar plexus of the other. He got a satisfying wheeze of pain in response.

“Who are you working for?” Matt demanded, turning to block a blow from behind and deliver a cheap nut-shot just because he could.

There was no reply, except with fists. That was fine for the moment, though – violence was a conversation Matt had always been adept at. Three opponents was nothing, especially not with the smell of Foggy’s blood still strong in his nose. He juggled them easily, ducked and wove to pit them against one another.

And then one of the men broke the pattern. Turned and ran towards the apartment, leaving the other two to fight Matt. There was barely even time for a thought – Matt slammed the heads of the other two attackers together and shoved them so they toppled over, then leapt at the one heading for the door, grabbing his legs and knocking him to the concrete before he could clear the doorway. The other two were still groaning on the ground, so Matt was free to focus on the opponent in front of him – he got to his knees and dragged the man back by his collar, then let his fist get real comfortable with the guy’s nose. Foggy was still safe inside the building, but even a failed attempt to get around Matt to him had ignited Matt’s temper anew.

He was so angry his focus on the world around him wavered, went blurred and more staticky than usual. He didn’t realize the man he was fighting had grabbed for the gun still in his holster. It was too close to fire, but it made a pretty good blunt instrument. There wasn’t much force behind the blow, given the limited maneuvering space, but it still clocked Matt pretty good in the face, enough that the man pinned beneath him was able to scramble away. Matt shook his head, hard, to try and clear it. By then, the first attacker was through the door and the others were getting to their feet.

Matt didn’t bother trying to subdue them a second time.

“Foggy!” he shouted, charging into the building.

There was a stutter in Foggy’s heartbeat, and then it sped up dramatically, and Matt couldn’t tell if it was because he’d heard the warning shout or if it was because he’d caught sight of his gun-toting pursuer. They were both on the second floor of the building, Foggy at one end of the hall and the man with the gun at the other.

“C’mon, Nelson, this doesn’t have to be hard,” came a growl – not the voice of the man who had first spoken.

_He_ was somewhere behind Matt with the third guy, but Matt didn’t bother wasting his focus to try and figure out how close they were. If the guy on the second floor shot Foggy, nothing else would matter.

“ _Hey_ ,” Foggy said just as Matt finally reached the landing. “Hey, you don’t need to use that. I’m not running. I’ve got my hands up.”

As silently as possible, Matt opened the door to the second-floor hallway. Then he shut it behind him, and clicked the lock closed. It wouldn’t hold the hallway forever, but it would keep the other two men from the scene for long enough for Matt to disarm the first and get Foggy out of danger.

“You’re not running _now_. I should put a bullet through your kneecap for running before. Getting the fucking Devil on our tail.”

“You really do not need to do that,” promised Foggy. “Think how hard it’ll be for me to walk to wherever your creepy kidnapper van is.”

“Duck!” Matt yelled, which had the dual effect of getting Foggy to duck out of the line of fire and getting the man with the gun to turn right into a gut punch. He didn’t have time to catch his breath before Matt had broken his wrist. The gun clattered to the floor, but the sound of it was distant beneath the rushing of blood in Matt’s ears.

“You think you can hurt him?” he growled. “You think you have any right to even _touch_ him?”

He slammed the guy’s head against the wall with a snarl. Once. Twice. Thr—

“Stop!” Foggy shouted. “Stop, he’s down. Please.”

Matt went cold all over, and dropped his opponent. The man slumped to the floor immediately, not even trying to catch himself. He was out. Matt had done some serious damage to him, more than he’d meant to.

“I. I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

Matt’s hands twitched towards Foggy, but the way the air passed over them drew his attention towards the fact that his gloves were soaked through. With blood. Matt lowered his arms, hands clenched into fists. He didn’t want to get that blood on Foggy – literally or metaphorically. Foggy deserved better.

“Just—”

But then the hallway door burst open. Matt dropped his reservations like a hot coal and yanked Foggy into the nearest apartment by his shirt, gripping the fabric with a nearly-inaudible wet squelch that would surely leave a bloody handprint behind. He slammed the door and locked it with slippery fingers.

“Shit!” one of the men hissed, stumbling to a stop several feet from his friend. “Shit, the guy’s fucking crazy, what do we do?”

The other stepped around their fallen comrade and jiggled the doorknob of the apartment. The lock held.

“We cut our losses,” he said, quietly and calmly.

“ _What_?”

“He’s got the Devil protecting him. So unless you want to end up like Jake...”

“But Francis—” the only other man who was conscious protested.

“I gave you an order! I’ll handle the fallout.” Matt tilted his head to listen for their retreat; what he got instead was the smooth, mechanical sound of a gun cocking. “Now!”

Matt tackled Foggy to the floor just in time, as a hail of bullets cracked through the door above their heads. By the time the gunfire had stopped echoing in his ears, the three attackers were gone. And no matter how much he wanted to, Matt couldn’t stop shaking long enough to focus on locating them. He stumbled to his feet and slammed a fist against the wall. The pain was enough to still his trembling, but not enough to bleed out his anger.

“Well, that was.” Foggy heaved himself to his feet with a grunt. “That was unexpected. Thanks for the save.”

The words were said lightly, nonchalantly, but they still cut to the quick. Matt tried to ignore it by focusing on the tight undertone of fear beneath Foggy’s bravado.

“Did you think I’d stop protecting you just because we broke up?” he asked, trying hard to keep the hurt out of his voice and probably not succeeding.

“No, I mean… I don’t know,” admitted Foggy, and he laughed weakly. “You dropped off the face of the earth. And I’ve never had a vigilante ex-boyfriend before, I don’t really know how this is supposed to go.”

Matt tried for a smile, but it didn’t stick.

“You should call Brett Mahoney,” he said at last.

“You mean 911.”

“No,” Matt corrected sharply. “I mean Brett Mahoney. I don’t… I don’t know which cops are working for Fisk. But I know _he_ isn’t.”

“Ok, ok,” Foggy said, opening what was left of the door to step out into the hallway. “But I’m gonna need to borrow your batphone if you’ve got one, mine’s under a dumpster somewhere.”

Matt fished his burner phone out of a pocket in his cargo pants and handed it over.

“There.”

“Oh, yuck.” There was a slide of fabric as Foggy scrubbed the phone with his sleeve.

Right. The blood. Matt had a ridiculous urge to hide his hands behind his back, as though that would be sufficient to remove the memory of them from Foggy’s mind. While he berated himself for the impulse, Foggy dialed.

“Hey, Brett, it’s Foggy, kinda in some trouble here— Oh, you just got a call about that? Yeah, that was me. I mean, ok, the gunfire wasn’t me, it was aimed at me, but— Whoa! Slow down, of course I’m not— I think if I was shot I would lead with ‘hey Brett I’ve been shot’ ok?”

Matt’s mouth twitched, but he stifled the smile that wanted to form. Instead, he focused on his senses, on the apartment building and the block around them. No one was approaching. Someone had heard the shots if Foggy’s conversation with Brett was any indication, but they were enough of a New Yorker to know better than to come gawk.

Foggy snapped the sturdy little flip phone shut with a gusty sigh.

“He’s coming?”

“Yeah, he’s coming,” Foggy confirmed.

“Good.” Matt stripped off his gloves, shoved them in a pocket, and held out a hand. “Now show me your cut.”

There was a long pause. Foggy shifted from one foot to the other.

“My what now?” he asked at last.

“You cut yourself on the glass when you broke in. Show me.”

Matt crooked his fingers a couple times, and finally Foggy gave in and held out his right arm. Matt didn’t dare touch the wound itself, his hands weren’t clean, but he circled Foggy’s wrist with his fingers to hold him in place. With an area to pinpoint his senses on, Matt was able to get a better idea of the cut. Not a serious injury. One that probably stung like hell, but nothing that needed stitches. He let out a sigh of relief, and released Foggy’s wrist.

“Satisfied?” Foggy asked wryly.

“On that count. Why did they attack you?”

“I don’t know.”

The lie was so blatant that for a second Matt didn’t know how to respond to it. On any other day, in any other situation, he might have tried to be more gentle, to wheedle the truth from Foggy’s lips. But Matt wasn’t in the mood to play nice, not with adrenaline still buzzing in his veins, not with the stench of Foggy’s blood still hanging in the air, cloying and metallic. He bared his teeth, boxed Foggy in against the hallway.

“Yes,” he said darkly, “you do. This wasn’t a random mugging, Foggy. They wanted _you_.”

“It’s nothing, really,” lied Foggy again, “nothing you have to worry about. Probably just one of the cases Matt and I are working on—”

“You only _have_ one active case,” Matt growled, pressing Foggy further into the wall, careful not to hurt him. “And it’s against Wilson Fisk.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, dude?”

The problem with having had months of mind-blowing sex with someone, Matt considered, was that generally they’d heard you make too many embarrassing sex noises to be intimidated by you anymore. Not that Matt had ever wanted Foggy to be intimidated by him – either as Matt Murdock or the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen – and that probably had something to do with it too. His traitorous heart was actually just a little bit pleased to see that Foggy wasn’t afraid of him, but it definitely made things more difficult.

“Foggy—”

“No,” snapped Foggy, pressing a finger into Matt’s chest. “Look, you can’t just, show up and start interrogating me like I’m some criminal! And how much are you stalking me, anyway, that you know how many cases I’m on? If you were gonna hang around like a gargoyle anyway you could at least have stopped by to let me know you hadn’t literally bled out or something, asshole!”

“I know what I’m doing, Foggy, I can _fight_ , but _you_ — you have to stop. Please. I can’t… If you were…”

It was hard to breathe. The idea of Foggy dead didn’t fit. Didn’t work. It wasn’t compatible with Matt’s worldview – Foggy was a constant, part of the bedrock of Matt’s life in a way that was probably foolish but felt inevitable. Matt clutched Foggy’s shirt with trembling fingers, like maybe he could hold him there. Like he could keep him safe, keep him from rushing headlong into danger.

“I can’t stop,” Foggy said calmly. “Any more than you can. This, this stuff with Fisk? This affects all of us.”

“Foggy—”

“And besides,” he interrupted, “I was able to find something out. Ben and I think we might have a lead on the heroin smugglers linked to Fisk.”

Which was what Matt had been working on. If they were chasing the same group, comparing notes might lead to a break. But he was too upset to talk it over with Foggy, to listen to Foggy talk about all the ways he’d put himself in danger.

“Then I’ll talk to _Ben_ about it,” Matt said, let his voice drip with as much disapproval as he could muster. “Since he’s not the one getting in enough trouble to have gunmen coming after him.”

Foggy scoffed.

“Oh, like you’re one to talk, Devil Boy. How many guns have you faced down tonight alone?”

“Three,” retorted Matt, and he dared to reach out a hand and press it over Foggy’s heart. “All of them aimed at you.”

Foggy’s breath caught. His heart leapt under Matt’s hand, and Matt let himself believe – just for a moment, despite all the evidence – that it was because that heart belonged to him. That _Foggy_ belonged to him. He let himself bask in that moment. Foggy didn’t pull away. Matt didn’t dare, not when he hadn’t had a chance to be so close to Foggy since… Since the kiss.

“Look, I…” Foggy started, but trailed off.

The peal of a police siren broke through the moment. Beneath it was the particular whining cadence of Brett’s squad car, which had a faulty A/C system.

“Mahoney’s a block away,” Matt said, pulling back. “We should head down.”

“Again with the superpowers,” joked Foggy, and Matt was glad to note that it sounded more real than before, more steady.

Better yet, he followed after Matt without hesitation – trusted him, easily, despite the way they’d argued only minutes before. They waited together on the stoop, until Matt’s senses told him Brett was just out of sight. Then he gave Foggy one last, sharp nod, and scaled the fire escape. He cleared the rooftop just as the police car pulled to a stop in front of Foggy. Brett – lemon cough drops, cheap aftershave, faint whiff of cigar smoke, steady-fast heartbeat, solid footsteps – stepped out onto the curb.

“Nelson,” he called.

“Mahoney. Thanks for coming, you’re a real pal.”

Brett didn’t believe Foggy’s false joviality any more than Matt did. He slammed the door of his car shut and made his way up to the stoop, leaning a shoulder against the brick with a scrape of fabric.

“Cut the shit. The hell have you got yourself mixed up in now, Foggy?” Brett sighed, probably rubbing a hand tiredly over his face if the distortion of his breaths was any indication.

“Would you believe me if I told you I had no idea what those guys wanted?” asked Foggy hopefully.

“No,” came the reply. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, didn’t think so.”

There was no more forthcoming. Brett waited about half a minute for anything else before he let out another aggravated sigh.

“You’re not going to tell me anything, are you,” he said flatly.

“It’s… You’re not wrong, that I’m into something dangerous right now,” admitted Foggy, so quietly that even with his senses Matt could barely hear it. “But I can’t pull you in with me. I won’t do that to you. We play like we’re enemies, but you’re my friend. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, and Brett’s heartbeat spiked with anger. Matt understood the feeling. It was oddly satisfying to know he wasn’t alone in thinking that Foggy was being an absolute reckless idiot. And no, he wasn’t being hypocritical, no matter what Foggy had to say about it.

“And you think you getting hurt is the better option?” Brett demanded. “I’m a cop, Foggy. It’s my job to handle stuff like this. And if you seriously think I won’t—”

“Brett. Please. Just… Let it go.” Foggy jostled Brett’s shoulder. “C’mon, man, you’ve gotta drive me over to pick up my phone before it gets eaten by mutated rats.”

“I should shoot you myself is what I should do. Get in the car, Nelson. We’ll get your damn phone. But then I’m taking you to the station and you’re gonna explain _exactly_ what happened tonight.”

Only when Foggy was safely in the cruiser with Brett, and grumbling all the way, did Matt stand again. He popped his back, rubbed his bruising jaw, and turned in the direction of the Bulletin offices. If Matt was right about Ben Urich, he’d still be at his desk typing away at a story.

* * *

The truth was that, more than desiring to share what he’d acquired, Matt wanted – needed – insight into what Karen, Ben, and Foggy had been getting themselves into. Not to mention that if Fisk had sent men after Karen twice and Foggy once, Ben might be in danger too.

As expected, Ben was still in his office. He was the only one. No other heartbeats in the building, and the buzz of fluorescent lights was so low and centralized it could only be coming from one room. Matt rapped his knuckles – bare, he’d forgotten to put his gloves back on – against Ben’s window. There was a pause. Speculative, Matt thought, though he had no real way of knowing. And then Ben stood and slid his window open.

“So. A late-night visit from the Devil,” Ben said thoughtfully. “And I’m not even at a crossroads.”

“Maybe you’re just special, Mr. Urich,” replied Matt with a smirk.

It earned him a tired laugh. Then, sighing, Ben trudged back to his desk and dropped into his chair.

“What is it you wanted? I assume you want something, since it doesn’t look like you have anything new to drop off.”

Matt slid in through the window.

“As it happens I do have a little to share, and I think it might be of some import to you. It’s about Fisk’s heroin operation. I talked to Foggy Nelson tonight. He said you two had been looking into it too?”

“Sure, we talked about it,” Ben admitted. “Kid thinks Fisk’s people are the ones selling Steel Serpent, the new white powder heroin going around. But… He asked me to give him a few days to talk to a friend about it. I haven’t heard anything new from him since then.”

Matt’s placid smile twitched. _I’m going to_ strangle _Foggy_ , he thought, very calmly.

“Is that so. I suppose I’ll have to follow up with him for more details, then. But in the meantime… My own digging has led me to believe there are two gangs working heroin in this neighborhood. The first is run by someone known only as the Blacksmith. The other is a Chinese gang headed by a woman called Madame Gao. They seem to be having a territory dispute. But I don’t know which one is affiliated with Fisk.”

Ben hummed, rubbing a hand against his chin with a scrape of stubble.

“If Nelson’s theory is right, then Gao’s probably the one we need,” he said at last. “I know the gang running Steel Serpent is led by a woman, and according to Foggy they seem to be using Chinese immigrants to ferry the drugs.”

That pinged something in Matt’s mind. A memory, from the night of the bombings.

“Are they blind?” he asked faintly. “The workers? And carrying backpacks?”

“Yeah. How did you know that?”

Matt swallowed hard.

“Fisk used them to bomb the Russians’ hideouts, when he was done with them.”

 Matching Matt’s own unease, Ben’s heart gave a fearful stutter. But he didn’t let that feeling, any of it, into his voice as he stood from his desk again and spoke.

“Then I think we’ve found our next lead,” Ben said.

He sounded determined, strong, ready. But could anyone really be ready for Fisk? Karen hadn’t been. Neither had the Russians. Or Foggy. Or Matt himself.

“One last thing, Mr. Urich,” Matt cautioned, to temper the enthusiasm of the tenacious journalist before him. “Mr. Nelson was attacked tonight, possibly by Fisk’s men. So I’d strongly urge you to keep your head down for the time being.”

Ben’s laugh was more bitter than tired.

“I can’t promise that.”

Matt didn’t know what he’d expected.

“Apparently, none of us can. Take care of yourself, Ben Urich.”

“You too, man in black,” came the reply. “And maybe get something a little more substantial to wear. They invented body armor for a reason you know.”

* * *

Matt spent the rest of the night seething. He tossed and turned in his bed, having imaginary arguments with Foggy for hours, until he finally drifted off, jaw still clenched tight. He woke up just about the least rested he’d been since the bombing of the city, but he dragged himself up, slathered on some makeup to cover the bruise on his face, and somehow made it in to work.

It was strange, sitting in the office as though nothing had happened. Feet away from Foggy, and still unable to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he promised not to put himself into unnecessary danger ever again. At least it made Foggy’s avoidance of him easier to bear, turned it into a silver lining that kept Matt’s alter ego from bursting through the ragged seams of his daytime persona like so much sand from a punching bag.

He still spent the day impatient to confront Foggy about his recklessness, and it bled through into his work in a bad way. His translating of Fisk’s offer for Mrs. Cardenas was subpar to say the least, and Karen had to correct him on more than one occasion. In the end, they stopped halfway, and Karen tactfully suggested maybe Matt could either take a nap on the couch or just plain go home. So he left work earlier than usual to go back to his apartment, scrub the concealer off his face, and suit up.

Which was ridiculous, really, because it left him pacing the rooftop of Foggy’s apartment building for almost an hour, since _Foggy_ hadn’t left early. He was practically vibrating out of his skin by the time Foggy entered the building, and he nearly flubbed his leap off the roof and onto the fire escape. But he was right there waiting when Foggy closed the door of his apartment behind himself. Matt drew Foggy’s attention with their usual knock. Foggy opened his window immediately, and Matt climbed inside the apartment.

“You came back,” Foggy said.

He sounded insultingly surprised.

“I talked to Ben Urich. You may have gone to him to get started tracking down the heroin, but since then you’ve been working on it alone. You’re a smart man, Foggy, I think you’ll understand why I think that’s a bad idea,” Matt said darkly.

“It’s not like you were exactly around to tag in, you know,” came the flat reply.

And that was true, maybe, but not a good excuse. Foggy wasn’t like Matt, couldn’t fight like him – he needed to be careful, to stay safe. Anyone as practical as Foggy should have known that. It was part of the reason Matt had felt safe enough to spare his own feelings by blocking Foggy out; Foggy was brave, yes, but he wasn’t the type to throw himself into unnecessary danger. Apparently, that assumption had been a mistake on Matt’s part.

“And that means you just go running around the city’s underworld like a chicken with its head cut off?” Matt snapped.

“I already told you, we’re all in trouble if Fisk wins. If you weren’t around, someone had to do the dangerous stuff. I sure as hell wasn’t going to let anyone else put themselves in danger.”

Matt’s heart squeezed at the simple honesty of the words. They were the kind of thing that made him want to kiss Foggy and shake some sense into him in equal measure.

“If you won’t see sense,” he relented at last, “at least tell me what you found out about the Steel Serpent heroin. I put what I found together with what Ben told me, and your hunch was right. They’re the dealers working with Fisk.”

Foggy’s breath caught.

“Well,” he said, sounding too pleased for a man Matt had been scolding just moments ago, “that’s awesome because I found their base of operations.”

Foggy then proceeded to scare the ever-loving shit out of Matt with his misadventures in amateur investigating, which he insisted on detailing before he would reveal the whereabouts of the warehouse. If Matt had wanted to lock Foggy up before, well. That was nothing. He mentally upgraded his plan. Forget just a locked door or two, Matt clearly needed to kidnap Foggy to his own apartment, bar the doors and windows, and possibly tie Foggy to the bed to keep him from getting himself killed.

And then the thought of Foggy tied to a bed – to Matt’s bed, wreathed in silk sheets – took a sharp right turn into the kind of inappropriate territory that made a pulse of heat go through Matt’s entire body. _No_ , he reminded himself, despite knowing the fantasy was one that would come back to haunt him later. _We’re not doing that_.

He shook his head sharply, and tuned back in just in time to hear the address of his target. Their shot at Fisk. He needed to be on top of his game, to move on it as soon as possible. And so…

“I’ll check it out tonight,” promised Matt.

“Gonna just vanish into the night again?” Foggy demanded.

“I don’t…” Matt shook his head, at a loss for words. “I have to go. If this could stop Fisk…”

He was ready for an argument. What he wasn’t ready for was the familiar and long-missed sensation of a warm hand cupping his face. After two weeks of no physical contact initiated by Foggy at all, Matt just didn’t have the emotional fortitude to keep from leaning into it.

“I’m not asking you not to go,” said Foggy, sighing. “But I _am_ asking you to come back. I know we’re not… But, you know, it’d be the _polite_ thing to spare me the heart attack of thinking you’re dead in a dumpster somewhere.”

“I’ll come back,” Matt promised, because there was no other answer he could give. “When I’m done, I’ll come back.”

* * *

Entering the warehouse had been simple enough. There was a special knock for the door, but Matt’s hearing was spectacular after all – hearing it once was enough to be able to mimic it. Then he took out the guard at the door, and locked it behind him. He waited, listened, mapped out the space in front of him. There was a mass of people in the middle of the warehouse, standing still but making slow, mechanical movements with their arms. Gao’s workers – the blind ones, who had possibly been trafficked into the city. Patrolling the edges were guards. The closest one smelled like unfiltered cigarettes and gunpowder. Matt crept after the guards and knocked them out, one by one. Finally, he eased away from the corners of the room and towards the tables in the center. None of the people working perceived him, but he was moving quietly enough that he wouldn’t expect them to.

Even if they had, a heartbeat would spike if someone noticed him. Or so Matt had assumed.

He was three or four paces from the tables when a shout rent the air. It was firm, and insistent – an order. Matt was also pretty sure it was in Mandarin, but apparently ‘get him’ seemed to have the same cadence in any language. The second miscalculation came when Matt prepared himself to fight the rest of the guards. Instead, all of the people working with the heroin at the tables surged towards him.

“Wait,” he tried, stumbling back. “I don’t want to hurt you! I’m trying to help!”

But they didn’t pause. Matt wasn’t even sure a single person understood him. They washed over him like a seething wave, full of desperation and human heat. So many of them that Matt’s mental map slipped – he lost his sense of the warehouse, too adrift in the tide of people around him and his own choking need to escape. There was no up or down. No single sound or smell or sensation, just a wall of them crushing in on him, too dense to be picked apart.

It was— He couldn’t. Couldn’t breathe.

For two and a half seconds, Matt wondered if he’d come to the end. If he was going to die in a warehouse only a few blocks from home, hyperventilating and unanchored like he was nine all over again. There were hands on his face, on his chest, his throat, grabbing, constricting, pushing his sense of the world back until its borders were his own skin. There was nothing but the fear.

And then a grasping hand landed over his heart. It was small – the hand of a child. A _child_. Likely no bigger than Matt had been at the time of his accident. And that thought, the idea of a child being forced to work in such conditions, on an illegal and dangerous substance, probably so far from home that they might not even be able to comprehend the distance…

The fear was gone. Only the anger was left. Matt pressed through the tide of limbs and heartbeats until he had scooped the child into his arms. Then he squeezed his eyes shut tight – it did nothing for him in a physical sense, but something about closing his eyes had always helped him focus. It helped this time too. Slowly, surely, his mind and his ears and his hands separated the mass of arms and legs and torsos into people again. Matt found the boundaries between them and forced his way through – throwing out an arm here or there to pull anyone who’d unbalanced to their feet. Once he was outside the mob, he set the child down.

And then, while he was still catching his breath, gunfire split the air. Several people screamed. Something burst on one of the tables. There was a sizzle. A spark. Distantly, Matt remembered reading somewhere that there were parts of the white powder heroin purifying process that were dangerously flammable.

The fire caught, grew with a blast from something fragile into a roaring blaze. The heat of it made him want to throw up. Matt was just so fucking sick of his city burning. But he didn’t let the grief or the helpless rage swamp him – because while everyone else was shouting and panicking, there was still one heartbeat in the warehouse that was completely steady. The leader of the operation. Madame Gao. She smelled like the flash of a lightning strike, and the stale, oversweet rot of death. The chaos seemed to flow around her, there on the upper floor of the building, leaving her out of its path. Determined, even with his hands still trembling and his fingertips cold, Matt fought his way back through the tide of fleeing workers and up into her bubble of calm. Plowed through the two guards with her silently and without flair.

“I know you,” she said once they were alone, serene and calm despite the storm raging around them. “The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. You should not have come here.”

“Someone had to stop this. Might as well be me.”

Somebody pulled the fire alarm and the building’s ancient sprinkler system started with a hiss – late but still hopefully of some use. Matt, fighting to hear past the blare of the alarm drilling into his skull, tilted his head slightly. The people below were still a crushing mass of panic, only a few had made it out the doors, but the sprinklers would give them a little more time to escape, at least.

“Are you concerned about them?” Gao asked. “I would think it was beneath you.”

Matt bared his teeth.

“I protect the people in my city,” he snarled. “I don’t kill. As long as they live here, they’re part of what I’m trying to protect.”

“Are they.”

“They don’t deserve to die. Especially not when you clearly forced them to work for you – they hide, they’re afraid, they don’t speak to anyone. Those aren’t the actions of a gang member, they’re the actions of a captive. They’re all blind,” Matt said, the words like ash in his mouth, “so I can only assume you chose them because you felt they were vulnerable, and because no one would spare them a second glance on the street.”

“Chose them for their blindness,” Gao replied thoughtfully. “A clever theory, in its own way. But they were not blind when they came to me.”

Matt’s heart lurched.

“You took their sight from them.”

“You’re wrong, young man. They chose it, they blinded themselves, because they had faith in something beyond the distractions of your modern world. You think you’re freeing them from me? They had a destiny, a purpose. And you took that from them,” she said, so sure and earnest in her assertion that Matt’s stomach twisted with nausea. “Now they have nothing.”

He choked down the denials stuck in his throat, shook his head. The shimmering wrongness of her didn’t abate, nor did the smell of death and lightning. But he had come to link her operation to Fisk, to shut down a potential cash flow. He hadn’t come to debate ethics and meaning.

“Tell me about Fisk,” he demanded.

Gao just laughed.

“You think you frighten me? You are only a child. Angry. Lost.”

The aura of power around her thickened until it was almost as choking as the smoke. She sounded frail, moved like she was frail, but so did Stick. And that aura… Matt lunged. He didn’t put much strength into it, but he moved with as much speed as he could manage. Her stance widened, and she threw out an arm.

The moment her palm hit his chest, Matt was blasted across the room. His back smashed against a pile of crates.

And then, before he could even get to his feet, Gao was striding away. She made it fifteen feet before, without a sound, she vanished from Matt’s perception. Her heartbeat, which had still been as steady as a metronome, just… Stopped. Matt held his breath for five seconds, eight, fifteen… But the sound, which had been audible to him even over the alarm, over the fire and the shouting and the approaching wail of sirens, was simply gone. Her aura too had disappeared, leaving only a whiff of rotting fruit behind.

Matt inhaled, then coughed. Pressing a hand to his mouth, he stumbled his way through the flickering maze of heat and noise around him. One of the guards was on his knees, hacking. Matt hauled him to his feet by the collar, shoved him and ordered him to open the doors, to help get everyone out. Matt stayed in the warehouse a little longer to make sure there were no heartbeats left behind in the blaze, and then he shouldered his way out a side entrance. A lone police officer caught him at the door, but Matt disarmed him – though clumsily. Then he took to the rooftops, cold down to the marrow with fear.

* * *

When he fell through Claire’s window, still trembling, she didn’t speak. Just helped him over to the couch and started checking him over for wounds. Matt appreciated it as best he could – he didn’t think he was up for conversation, but that meant he wasn’t much up for thanking Claire for her endless consideration either. He managed a grunt in the negative when she asked if he was bleeding anywhere, but even that took almost more energy than Matt could muster. There were no breaks, no cuts. A couple bruises and maybe a little smoke inhalation. But Claire double-checked Matt’s old injuries anyway, the one’s he’d racked up in the two weeks—

In the two weeks without Foggy.

“I’m fine. Nothing’s… It’s not serious,” he managed to rasp at last. “I’m just. I busted a heroin lab. It got, uh, it got a little hairy. But nothing’s broken.”

“Yeah? Well you’re damn lucky you didn’t rip any stitches or re-fracture a rib. If you keep this up the way you have been, you’ll die,” snapped Claire. “And then who’ll be there to protect the city? Who’ll be there to stop these people?”

She was right. Claire was always right, Matt was learning. Even when he really, really wished she wasn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

The skeptical noise Claire made then was a very clear ‘uh huh, sure you are’ but her touch was still gentle, kind.

“You gonna talk to me about it?” she asked. “What happened tonight? You’re shaking like a leaf, Matt.”

“I.” Matt’s throat closed over his words; he tried several times to speak, but eventually had to shake his head.

“Then,” Claire said firmly, rubbing Arnica on the bruises he could feel beginning to form at his throat. “I think you should talk to Foggy. You said he’s your best friend. You said you loved him. Whatever happened tonight, it messed you up. And, much as it pains me to say it, this isn’t the sort of thing you could take to a therapist, no matter how much you need one.”

“I’ll. I’ll think about it,” Matt offered.

He didn’t want to talk about it. Not to anyone, even Foggy. But… He’d promised to go to Foggy after he was done at the warehouse. Promised to let Foggy know he was alive. He could do that, at least.


	17. Under the Mask Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy learns the Devil's secret identity in the third dumbest way possible. He's got a lot of questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are folks, part one of your payoff! It's pretty short, but I split it in two because the next half will be in Matt's POV.

After half an hour of pacing, Foggy moved up to the roof of his building to wait for the Devil. It was easier, in the open air, with a slight breeze in his hair. It didn’t feel as claustrophobic. The roof gave him space for all the conflicted thoughts swirling around in his head. Because Foggy cared, and he was worried, of course he was. But he was also still kinda pissed off about being mother-henned by the most reckless dickhead in the city.

Foggy sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. Still. There were different kinds of devils. And the ones like Wilson Fisk would always be worse than the Devil who’d lurked on Foggy’s fire escape. There was never any doubt about that.

And he… The Devil, he’d be ok. He would be. He was a crazy good fighter. Foggy really had nothing to worry about. He continued to tell himself that as sirens started screaming through the streets, as a barely-visible smudge of smoke started pouring up towards the night sky. The Devil would be fine. He’d be fine.

Another hour passed.

And then, suddenly, there he was. Silent and crouched on the rooftop like he’d simply been summoned from the shadows. Foggy’s breath caught, and the Devil straightened up.

“You came back.”

“Well.” A casual shrug. “I did promise.”

“Yeah. I just… Seems like maybe things got a little out of control. You know, what with the whole, blazing inferno,” Foggy pointed out.

A slight, sardonic smile flashed across the Devil’s face.

“I’m not hurt,” he said, and while that did seem to be relatively true, the fact of the matter was…

“Well, you still look like shit.”

Because he really, really did. The more Foggy looked, the more signs of Something Horrible he could pick out in the low yellow light of the streetlamps. Though the Devil was standing straight – not hunched over injured ribs or cradling an arm to his chest – his hands were shaking. He stank of ash and smoke. And he held his jaw clenched tight. The grin he shot Foggy’s way was brittle.

“Always know how to make me feel pretty,” the Devil joked, but his voice broke in the middle of the sentence.

“Oh, Jesus.” Foggy stepped forward and opened his arms. “Come here, man.”

He didn’t have to wait long. In half a second they were full of shaking vigilante. It was a familiar feeling, and Foggy stroked the Devil’s back in soothing circles the way he’d done for Matt in college on those nights he woke, trembling, from nightmares that he never talked about.

“I just,” murmured the Devil. “I just… I can’t…”

But that seemed to be all he could get out.

“Want to talk about it?” Foggy offered, but the Devil buried his face against Foggy’s throat and shook his masked head. “Ok. That’s fine. Hey. It’s ok, you’re ok. Is there anything I can do to help you feel better?”

“Anything…?”

Foggy paused. There was something about that word, in that tone, that seemed… Familiar. Only when he opened his mouth to reply did it hit him – the quiet desperation, the intensity of it… Just like when Matt had asked him the same question the night of The Kiss. The thought of that night made the words dry up in his throat, but he nodded anyway.

“Yeah,” he forced out at last, roughly. “Yeah, anything.”

The Devil shifted, took a step out of Foggy’s arms, and Foggy let him go.

“Then. Then will you tell me…?” the Devil asked hesitantly. “About the person you love?”

Foggy’s heart lurched.

“I don’t know if—”

“Please. I… I’m not… Everything is so.” The Devil took a wet, shaky breath. “I need something… Good. To keep me going. I need to hear about… About something happy. Something that makes you happy.”

And what else could Foggy say to that?

“Yeah, man, of course,” he replied, taking the vigilante’s gloved hand in his and squeezing it. “But I’m warning you, I’m a rambler at the best of times, once I start talking I’m not liable to shut up. So let’s just… Let’s take a seat, ok?”

Foggy searched out the cleanest space on the rooftop and settled down, guiding the Devil with their connected hands.

“Sounds good,” came the quiet reply. “… Thank you, Foggy.”

Foggy gave the Devil’s hand one last squeeze, and then let go.

“Hey, if you really think it’ll cheer you up, I’m happy to do it. Where to start,” he mused, leaning back on his hands with a sigh and staring up at the night sky. “If you’re looking for, you know, faith in humanity, he’s definitely your guy.”

“Yeah…?”

“Oh yeah,” Foggy said with a grin. “I mean, he’s not perfect – he’s got his faults like everyone else. But that smile… Like you wouldn’t believe. Direct ray of sunshine, I swear. And he’s not a people-person, but god he just cares so much, all the time, it’s crazy. A real crusader of justice type. He really… He wears his heart on his sleeve. He loves people, even if it’s hard for him to show it. And it’s not superficial or lighthearted. He loves so intensely that I think sometimes, a lot of times, it hurts him. Always tries to do the right thing, tries to get me to do the right thing too. No matter the consequences. He’s the best guy I know.”

And it was… Nice, to finally say it all aloud. To tell someone about it. Like maybe a little weight was lifting off Foggy’s heart.

“You must be… You must be happy together,” ventured the Devil. “If he’s all that.”

The laugh that burst from Foggy’s lips then was short, and bleak, and he regretted it immediately.

“Nah. It’s…” He waved his hand, like he could wipe away the mistake, the instinctive disappointment. “It’s all one-sided. I don’t mind though! I’m not… I’m not sad about it.”

“Really?”

The Devil sounded a little sad for Foggy, a little skeptical. Well, that was only to be expected. Leaning forward, Foggy picked his hands off the rooftop and scruffed one through his hair.

“Yeah, man, really. If you knew Matt at all, you wouldn’t even need to ask that question.” The Devil froze in Foggy’s peripherals and he realized his mistake – saying the name – but the truth was, he really did trust the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen to protect him, to protect Karen, and hopefully to protect Matt too; so Foggy kept talking. “As long as I’m with him – a part of his life, I mean – that’s good enough for me. He’s my best friend, you know? More than anything I want him to be happy. And it would be— just, seriously awesome, if what made him happy was relationship with me, but I know it’s not and I’m ok with that.”

“What if it was,” the Devil said suddenly, abruptly. “What if that was what. What made him happy?”

“Uh. I don’t… I’m not sure what you mean,” replied Foggy. “I mean. If it was then… I dunno. Then he’d probably have already asked me out, Matt’s not exactly a shrinking violet no matter how demure he pretends to be.”

The Devil nodded, shakily, then lurched to his feet.

“And you’d say yes if he asked?” asked the Devil, wetting his lips. “Even if he lied to you? If he’d lied to you a lot?”

A squirmy, sinking feeling settled in the pit of Foggy’s stomach. He stood too.

“… Why are you asking me this?”

“Well…”

The Devil pulled off his mask, and for all that his face was immediately, painfully familiar, he was also unrecognizable. Until he wasn’t. Until he was _Matt_. The shift was immediate and shocking. Foggy was put in mind of watching the 1978 Superman movie for the first time, seeing Christopher Reeve’s posture shift seamlessly from Clark Kent to Superman – how he’d looked the same, but how his body language had all but turned him into a different man. In that same way, the person in front of him had gone from the Devil wearing Matt’s face to Matt wearing the Devil’s clothes.

“What the _fuck,_ Matt?” Foggy said.

And then, with the— stupid black mask clutched in one hand, Matt made a wounded, pleading face Foggy knew entirely too well for the situation to be… Whatever it wasn’t. Pod people. Shapeshifters. Shapeshifting pod people.

“Foggy—”

“ _What the fuck_ , Matt!” interrupted Foggy, and yes, yup, that was definitely him beginning to hyperventilate right there, awesome.

Because his best friend. His _blind_ best friend. Was going out every night and getting— ventilated by switchblades in the name of great justice! Backflipping off fire escapes! Getting framed for terrorist attacks! Punching people in the f—

“Oh my god.”

“Foggy,” Matt tried again, lifting his hands in a calming position. “Foggy, just—”

“Oh my god! _I’m_ the secret girlfriend! I— I dumped you for _you_! What the fuck! How is this my life! What the fuck, Matt!” demanded Foggy, throwing out his arms in emphasis and sweet baby Jesus did Matt _know_ he was doing that?

Could he _tell_? Because Matt was blind, he was definitely one hundred percent NLP blind, like there was _literally no way_ he could have possibly been faking that, but also you don’t just get into fights with armies of mafia thugs if you can’t tell where they are and what they’re doing! And it had been pretty obvious that the Devil wasn’t completely, you know, normal. Was Matt compensating for his blindness with superpowers somehow?

“Foggy, please—”

“But you’re straight!” Foggy insisted shrilly, because the ninja stuff and Matt’s brushes with death were a little too radioactive to confront first thing.

“I think,” replied Matt in an even, diplomatic voice, “we can pretty safely say that I’m not.”

His expression would look placid to anyone who didn’t know him, but he wasn’t fooling Foggy with his earnest, serious look. There was a slight twitch to Matt’s mouth that Foggy just knew was hiding a laugh and a too-pleased-for-himself grin.

“You’re not funny, Murdock,” Foggy complained, fond despite the tangle of emotion still caught in his chest. “Ugh. You dickhead, I’m your best friend, you could have told me, you know? Saved me a decade of crushing-on-your-straight-best-friend angst.”

Matt smiled.

“At least we were in it together?” he offered. “So it was even.”

And as much as Foggy loved Matt’s smile, as much as he wanted that to be the end of it… He shook his head. Matt was the Devil. He’d been the Devil the whole time, he’d been putting himself in danger, keeping secrets…

“But it’s _not_ even, Matt,” Foggy said, shoulders hunched. “Not even close to even. You said it yourself, you lied to me. About— Ugh, I don’t even _know_ about how much, that’s the fucked up thing! I just— It was never just your feelings. Your secret identity? Your abilities, whatever the hell they actually are? How well do I even really know you, Matt? How much of it was true, and how much was just…”

Matt’s face crumpled into despair immediately.

“No, I didn’t… I… Foggy, please. You _do_ — You’re my best friend, you know me better than anyone. And you said, you _said_ you loved me. You said…” Matt’s throat bobbed, and even in the dim light Foggy could see tears pooling in his eyes. “Please don’t take it back.”

Take it back? Take it _back_? Matt was the one who had lied out his ass and somehow it was _Foggy’s_ feelings that were in question?

_This absolute bastard_ , Foggy thought, heart squeezing. He grabbed Matt by the biceps, intending to shake the idiocy out of him, and found himself crushing their mouths together instead. With an eager noise, Matt kissed back, clutching at the back of Foggy’s shirt with the hand that didn’t still have his stupid mask in it.

It took probably… Four minutes longer than it should have for Foggy to work up the willpower to break the kiss.

“I don’t know why I just did that,” he admitted, breathless, but didn’t let go of Matt’s – ripped, holy shit, he was _so ripped_ – arms.

Matt laughed, a little hysterically.

“I didn’t mind. Maybe you—” He licked his lips and Foggy’s heart just about stopped. “Maybe you should do it again.”

It was tempting. It was so, so—

“No!” insisted Foggy, scolding himself as much as he was scolding Matt. “No, you stop— _seducing_ me with your hotness for five seconds and explain yourself!”

He jerked back away from Matt and crossed his arms over his chest to wait for answers. Matt shifted uncomfortably.

“Maybe. Maybe we should take this inside…?”

It was a weak dodge, but he did have a point. Better to keep Matt’s unmasked face and whatever secrets he was about to reveal hidden inside Foggy’s apartment.

“Fine,” Foggy said. “Ok, fine. Into the apartment, Devil boy. And then you’re gonna tell me everything. And when I say everything, Matthew, I mean _everything_.”

Matt turned his head over his shoulder – the pose he usually took as the Devil when he was about to say he’d heard something and backflip into the night. Foggy latched onto his wrist and began carting him towards the roof access stairs. He was ninety-three percent certain whatever Matt was hearing was purely imaginary, but even if it wasn’t, he was not gonna let Matt leave, not until everything was on the table.

Saving the day and taking a bite out of crime would have to wait. Foggy was getting some goddamn answers.


	18. Under the Mask Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt coughs up some answers. Emotions get a little rocky. More kissing is done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I thought I could fit everything into this chapter, and I was a fool. Since I keep making realizations about the implications of Matt's supersenses and his admissions, Foggy will too - but they'll be sprinkled throughout the rest of the fic. This is about all the patience any of us has for condensed interrogation of Matt's multitude of lies, lol

Matt wasn’t, he maintained, generally impulsive. Really. Or, at least, his instinct was to keep his cards close to his chest. But the moment the words _if you knew Matt at all_ left Foggy’s lips, Matt’s fate had been sealed. All those praises for Matt’s nameless, faceless rival had been for him all along. And the thoughtless, instinctual part of his brain – the part that had always willfully categorized Foggy as ‘mine’ whether he had a right to or not – had taken the wheel, torn the mask from his face.

Standing across from Foggy inside his apartment and fidgeting nervously with that very mask, Matt was having some serious regrets.

His mind turned suddenly to their kiss.

Ok, well. _Moderate_ regrets, at least.

“Well?” Foggy demanded, tapping his foot impatiently after several seconds of tense silence. “Get talking, Murdock. Everything.”

Matt swallowed.

“You…” He cringed. “You won’t like it.”

“How much won’t I like it?” Foggy asked him, quietly dangerous with his heart threading an angry beat beneath the words. “Did you lie to me after the bombings? About killing people?”

“No! No, I didn’t— I, I wouldn’t, I.” Matt swallowed, shook himself. “I can hear your heartbeat, Foggy. From here. From across a crowded building. From two blocks away. I can— You, you forgot to brush your teeth tonight, I can tell because there’s no mint on your breath. I can feel your body heat from here like I’m touching you.”

Foggy’s heart picked up, from anger into panic, and his breath caught sharply.

“ _What_.”

It was a… Less than stellar response. Matt’s shoulders hunched, and he had the most pathetic urge to shove the mask back onto his face, as if that would protect him from Foggy’s scrutiny. From his judgment.

“It was, all this time you kept guessing, about my abilities, and you never once got it right,” Matt stammered, and let out a slightly-hysterical laugh. “When I was nine… That accident, you remember?”

He took a step forward, and Foggy didn’t retreat. Matt took it as a tentative good sign.

“Your first big hero moment,” replied Foggy, and Matt could even imagine there was some fondness there. “How could I forget? I only gushed about it like a dweeb the first time we met.”

One of the best moments of Matt’s life. Not the gushing itself, because in the end it really was just instinctive – nothing to be commended for. Nothing to be praised to excess, the way people did when they were trying to make like his status as a ‘hero’ would, would _make up for_ his blindness, or something. But Foggy’s gushing hadn’t been like that at all. He’d been… Bright. Happy. Elated. He’d been awkward and ridiculous – a bull in a china shop, as Anna Nelson would say – but also friendly and eager, with none of the hesitation Matt was used to receiving for any number of reasons. It had been like a warm beam of sunlight on his face after a cold, overcast day.

It hadn’t made him fall _in love_ with Foggy right then and there, not romantically, but… Matt had loved him from that first day. He’d been startled and baffled and overwhelmed with the strength of his feelings – unable to truly understand them at the time – but he hadn’t felt a single urge to step away.

“Well,” Matt said quietly, and he managed a smile even as his fear started to chip away at his nostalgia. “That accident did more than take my sight. It heightened all my senses. A hundred, a thousandfold. I don’t even know. I can hardly even remember what it was like to live without them, now. I woke up in the hospital and the whole world was…” Matt shook his head, threw out his free hand. “On fire.”

“I don’t understand,” Foggy said, his tone a little softer.

Matt tried to find the words. There was… There was just no other way to… It had been a roar of sound, a blaze of heat, every patch of skin itching under the assault of rough hospital sheets, a thousand smells. Everything, everything crushing him.

“It’s like…” He sighed. “Well, try to imagine listening to a rock concert from right next to the speakers, in the middle of a perfume department, while covered in poison ivy.”

“Uh. Ow?”

Despite himself, Matt had to laugh.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah, pretty much. And when I first woke up in the hospital, I couldn’t make sense of it all. I couldn’t understand. It was a wall of indecipherable information, slamming into me from every sense I had left. Plus, well… I couldn’t see. I was terrified.”

Foggy’s breath caught. He took a few stumbling steps, and then the couch creaked beneath his weight.

“Oh,” he breathed, voice pained. “ _Shit_. Oh my god, Matt, that’s…”

“It’s not like that anymore,” Matt said, just to head off the horror in Foggy’s tone. “I can, I can separate it out now.”

There was a quiet swish and a brush of cool air – Foggy shaking his head – but his racing heartbeat slowed a little. He was calming down. So maybe, maybe there was a little hope that Matt would get out of the conversation intact, without having to break himself open, to show off the strangest, ugliest parts of himself and risk Foggy walking away for good.

Then again, thinking that was probably the best way to jinx himself.

“Wait. Wait,” Foggy said. “You can separate it out. And you can hear heartbeats, and… Oh god can you like… Hear my insides and stuff? Dude that is legit freaky.”

Even if the embarrassment hadn’t been so plain in his voice, Matt would have felt it in the way his temperature spiked, in the smell of sweat that began to itch in his nose.

“No,” Matt protested. “It’s— I mean, I _can_ hear that but it’s. Nice. They’re just noises, Foggy, but they’re— but they’re _your_ noises and they’re familiar and I love them because they mean you’re here with me. I’m used to them, and I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t hear them anymore.”

Far from being reassured, Foggy just flushed hotter in increasing humiliation.

“Matt, no. Come on, man! That’s so gross and weird. Bodies are disgusting, and you can hear and, ugh, and _smell_ all of it! I have never been more horrified to have a physical form than in this very moment.”

Which was… Ok, it was true, a little. It had taken Matt a while to get used to Foggy’s sensory output in college – the smells and sounds and textures that made him up. But that was how it always was with new people. It took a while to stop separating them into component parts and sense them as a whole. So, yeah, life was gross. People were gross. But Matt was used to it. It wasn’t embarrassing or horrible, it was just… How things were.

“I can use my senses in other ways, too,” Matt offered. “People’s tells are often visual, but when you’ve got senses like mine, you can hear their heart speed up with a lie, or—”

Matt cut off, knowing instantly that he’d made a mistake. That in his attempt to reassure Foggy, he’d revealed a little too much.

“ _That’s_ why you believed Karen when we first met her!” Foggy exclaimed, then groaned. “It wasn’t your weakness for hot chicks, it was because you were _listening to her heartbeat_! You seriously just go around polygraphing the entire world? Matt that is— We’re lawyers, man, that is double extra super illegal! Ugh. God, not to mention what would happen to all our _cases_ if it ever came out that you’re a vigilante. It could destroy our careers, Matt, both of them – not to mention land you in jail!”

“I won’t get caught,” Matt insisted, because it was all he could think to say.

“You can’t promise me that, Matt!”

There were promises he couldn’t make to Foggy. He couldn’t stop hearing people’s heartbeats. He couldn’t stop fighting, not when it could mean the difference between life and death for so many people, Foggy included. But getting caught, getting jailed, was more unthinkable than dying. He wouldn’t drag Foggy down like that, not ever.

Still, there was a part of him, the whisper of common sense that always sounded like Foggy, that knew not getting caught wasn’t a thing he could truly promise either. He could only promise to do his best.

“You didn’t have a problem with it when I was just the Devil,” he pointed out, a little defensively.

“Because I didn’t know it was you! Because it wouldn’t affect—” Foggy cut off with an angry sigh, fingers scraping roughly through his hair. “No. No, that’s hypocritical. And _selfish_. I put us both in danger too, mouthing off to Fisk’s guy. Those goons cornered me, but. But I didn’t even _tell_ you about— And he could just as easily have sent someone after Karen, or, or _you_ , because hey, the blind guy would be such an easy— S-such an easy—”

Foggy’s next breath was a strangled gasp for air. Matt rushed forward, knelt next to the couch, tore off his gloves, dropped his mask, and fumbled for Foggy’s face.

“Hey,” he soothed, cupping Foggy’s cheeks. “Shhh. Fog. Foggy. It’s ok, I’m right here. I’m safe, we’re both safe.”

“ _Matt_.”

A tear hit Matt’s fingers. Then another, and another. It took almost five minutes of hushing before Foggy’s breathing returned to normal, and his tears slowed to a stop.

“Are we ok?” Matt asked quietly.

When Foggy nodded against his hands, Matt released him and stood again.

“Tell.” Foggy swallowed. “Tell me more? About your senses? I still don’t get how you use all that to, to do your vigilante stuff. Do you have to piece it all together from every individual sense? Isn’t that exhausting?”

It was an obvious attempt to distance himself from the topic that had upset him, but they were earnest questions too. Insightful ones. Because Foggy really did want to know, really did care about understanding Matt now that he had access to all the pieces to do it – and Matt loved him for that. So he’d do his best to show it with his words.

“There are— pieces, sensations that it’s easier to label with a concrete sense, but. Do you… Do you ever know something, or sense something, but you don’t know how or why? It’s like that. I can’t pin it down to, to hearing or smell or the brush of air currents sometimes. It just is. I just…” Matt shrugged. “I just know. Like an upside-down version of knowing when someone’s watching you, or a, I don’t know, a radar sense.”

It was kind of… Freeing, actually, to talk about it. To try to explain his senses to more than himself. And, more than that, to share them with Foggy after having to hide them for so long.

“I think I understand. At least a little. But that’s not everything, is it, Matt?” Foggy asked in that sure, quiet voice that had been the bane of most of their classmates in law school. “You’re still leaving something out, something big.”

Matt grimaced. _Can’t we go back to the part where you were kissing me_ , he wanted to ask. But he already knew the answer he would get to a question like that. While Foggy was easy to distract when he was in a good mood, once he’d sunk his teeth into a topic there was no pulling him away until he had decided he was done. Matt just explaining his senses wouldn’t be enough. He’d lied to Foggy for so long that the penance would take every secret he had, every lie he’d told.

“Foggy… Please. I don’t…”

“There’s two parts to this vigilante schtick, Matt. The superpowers are one thing. A freaky thing, but, hey, we live in an extremely freaky world full of extremely freaky people with extremely freaky superpowers. But the fighting? You don’t just wake up knowing how to fight like that.”

No. No, he didn’t. But that wasn’t a nice story. And it wasn’t one he particularly wanted to tell. Still… For Foggy? He’d do it.

“I had a teacher,” he began, simply.

Foggy made a quiet, interested noise.

“I’m waving you on, in case you couldn’t tell,” he added, gesturing outwards with one hand.

“His name was Stick,” Matt told him, turning his face away and ignoring Foggy’s scoff of disbelief. “Or that’s… That’s the only name he gave me. After my dad died, when I was at St. Agnes… Without him there, I couldn’t control my senses. I didn’t have anyone or anything to focus on. And then Stick showed up, and he taught me how to use my talents. That sight was a distraction. He taught me to fight, too.”

“So you’ve had some sort of… Secret martial arts teacher this whole time? And I never met him even once?”

The thought of Foggy meeting Stick was chilling. Matt didn’t want Stick anywhere near Foggy. He was too dangerous, too cold. Foggy wasn’t made to be part of Stick’s world. He was too soft. Stick would see that as a fault, even though Foggy’s softness was his strength.

Matt shook his head.

“No. No, he… He left, when I was twelve. I wanted… I made him a friendship bracelet, out of an ice cream cone wrapper,” he explained, as calmly and flatly as he could, trying to convince himself that leaving out the ice cream story wasn’t another lie. “But Stick didn’t want a friend, or a son. He just wanted a soldier. So, he left.”

Foggy’s temperature and his pulse both spiked, and Matt could just make out the near-silent strain of his jaw as he gritted his teeth.

“He _left_? You were just a kid!”

“And it sucked,” admitted Matt. “But without him I would never be able to live the life I have today.”

There was a swish as Foggy sliced an arm through the air.

“Nuh uh. No way. You were his student to look after! This guy probably jump-started at least fifty percent of your abandonment issues, he does not get a free pass just because he taught you some neat tricks! You needed more!”

Matt shook his head, warmed and charmed by Foggy’s anger on his behalf. It was sweet. It was one hundred percent Foggy. But even as much as Matt wanted to punch Stick in the face half the time, it wasn’t as though he’d been left defenseless.

“There was more he could have taught me about fighting,” Matt explained gently, “but I knew my senses well enough by then that I was ok. He was a dick, but he taught me what I really needed to know. Enough to survive, enough to function – to thrive, even. To be strong enough that I could rely on myself. I’m thankful for that every day.”

“So, but. Then. You never needed… Anything? I mean, was I just part of your cover? The guiding and the narration, and…” Foggy trailed off, like he couldn’t bear to say more.

Which was good, because Matt couldn’t bear to hear more. It was too much like how Stick would have put it. And that wasn’t, it wasn’t true. And Matt had to explain that it wasn’t true, had to do it right, make Foggy understand. He had to. He tugged at the fabric of his sleeves, and wet his lips as he thought about the right words for the job.

“I can use my enhanced senses to help me in ways other blind people can’t, yes,” he said slowly. “But that doesn’t mean it’s pleasant, or even feasible, to toss aside aides or assistive technology. I asked you to guide me because it helped me. Was it a hundred percent necessary? No. But you’re the one… You helped me accept that it was ok to ask for help, that just because I could push myself to the breaking point didn’t mean I was obligated to. That I was entitled to things that would make my life more comfortable.”

“Matt—”

But Matt didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to know what Foggy would have to say about that, not until he was done explaining it as best he could. So he cut Foggy off, hurriedly, pleadingly.

“I’m still blind. There’s things I could never know, _will_ never know, no matter how good my other senses are. I’ll never know the exact hue of your eyes. I can’t pick up winks or eye rolls, even if I can make a pretty good guess in what situations you in particular are likely to be doing either one just because of all the times you’ve narrated to me that you’re doing it. I… I don’t even really know what you look like. I just have… Guesses. Composites from my other senses. There’s no way for me to know if that image in my head matches reality at all.”

“I…” Foggy sighed, and his tone and his heartbeat both gentled. “You’re right. I’m sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean to get all… Of course you’re still blind, I know you are. And you do deserve anything that makes your life easier, or even just makes you happy. I want that for you. I just… I wish you would have trusted me with it. I wish you had told me earlier, Matt. All these years…”

“What was I supposed to say?” Matt asked, helpless. “Nice to meet you, I’m Matt Murdock – I got chemicals splashed on my eyes as a kid and now I can hear your heartbeat?”

There was a cool wave of air as Foggy made some sort of violent arm gesture.

“Not at _first_ ,” he replied. “I get that it’s a delicate topic, but Matt, you’re my best friend! I trusted you with everything about me, and you couldn’t find the right time to maybe mention you had superpowers, let alone that you’d started moonlighting as a vigilante?”

Matt laughed weakly, sinking onto the couch next to his best friend at last.

“You _don’t_ get it. I didn’t… When I walked into that dorm room, I never planned any of this. I wasn’t going to be _anyone’s_ friend. To let _anyone_ in. I was just going to keep myself safe and finish college like my dad wanted me to do. After Stick… Half of it was him teaching me bonds were weakness, and the other half was him walking out on me and proving it. And if I wasn’t close to anyone, no one had to know about my powers, because it was safer for everyone that way. But then I met you, and… You got to me the way nuns and social workers and foster families never had. I… I couldn’t help myself. All the walls came down. I wanted to be around you. I wanted _you_.”

There was a quiet, nearly inaudible, gulp at those words, a gratifying skip in Foggy’s heartbeat, and then a whiff of arousal. Matt couldn’t have helped the grin that spread across his face then, even had he wanted to.

“Oh my god, Matthew, do not!” Foggy insisted, shoving him. “You are still in so much trouble!”

The warmth of Foggy’s hand lingered on Matt’s arm even after Foggy had pulled away. Sighing, Matt leaned back against the couch, tipped his head towards the ceiling. He felt drained, but in a good way – like it was the end of a long workout. It had been hard, so hard, to get everything into the open. But Foggy telling him he was still in trouble? That meant Foggy sticking around to nag him about it. It meant there was a future to walk forward into together.

“My point was, Foggy,” Matt explained quietly, “by the time you were close enough to me that I might have been able to trust you… I couldn’t risk you hating me, or… Or thinking I was a freak, and walking away. Everyone else who ever got that close to me, they all left. And I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.”

“Augh,” Foggy muttered, slumping forward and making the couch creak. “You. You stupid wounded duck. What am I supposed to do?”

“Foggy…?”

“I’m having about twelve different emotions right now and I don’t know how to deal with any of them,” Foggy groaned into his hands. “I just— I’m mad at you for lying to me, and I’m still kind of freaked out by the heartbeat thing – so, _so_ illegal, I cannot even _comprehend_ how illegal it all is – and I love you _so much_ that it is literally making me stupid, and your tragic backstory just got ten times more tragic and I can’t _handle_ it, and oh my god you could have _died_ , Matt! Like a million times! All those scars…!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t want you to worry.” And even though he’d been so sure only moments before, Matt risked a weak little, “Please don’t leave me.”

Foggy pulled him in close, wrapped him in a fierce hug that Matt returned with a sigh of relief. He even dared push in closer, press his forehead to Foggy’s and nudge their noses together to silently request a kiss. Foggy obliged, and the sweetness of his mouth made Matt feel a hundred pounds lighter.

“No, of course I won’t leave,” Foggy said when he pulled back, swiping a thumb over Matt’s cheekbone, “but that doesn’t mean this is all resolved. It’s a lot to deal with, ok? I thought you were like, just a regular chocolate truffle – hard on the outside, and soft on the inside – but you’ve got this super-secret crunchy crime-fighting almond center that I wasn’t prepared for, man! You went full Ferrero Rocher on me! You gotta give me a little time to adjust!”

Matt’s heart squeezed, but from a surge of fondness rather than fear. Foggy and his ridiculous metaphors always brightened Matt’s mood, and even given the topic that was still the case.

“I’m. I’m pretty sure Ferrero Rocher is hazelnut, not almond—”

As always, his pedantry invoked a huff of mild frustration from Foggy that only barely hid the amusement underneath.

“Not the point here, Matthew!”

Matt basked in the levity of the moment for a few seconds longer. Just because it felt nice. Because he wanted to. Then he sighed, and squeezed Foggy’s hand in his own.

“I’ll give you as much time as you need, to adjust,” Matt promised. “As long as you try to… As long as you keep trying, I’ll do my best to be patient. But you…” He swallowed thickly. “You’ll touch me again now, won’t you?”

Foggy’s pulse lurched.

“What?”

“I don’t mean—” Matt flushed hot. “Well. That too, but. You’ll— Will you straighten my ties again, and fist bump me, and, and…”

Foggy squeezed Matt’s hand back, stroked his other hand through Matt’s hair.

“Fuck. Yes, yeah, of course I will,” he promised fervently. “Shit. I shouldn’t have stopped doing it in the first place, I just… I couldn’t handle, after the kiss… God I’m sorry, Matt, I was being an idiot.”

After another few soothing brushes, Foggy’s hand dropped from Matt’s head to his shoulder.

“Well, then,” he said. “I only have one more question.”

“Yeah…?” Matt asked hesitantly, not sure if he wanted to know what it was.

He was startled – and pleased – when Foggy’s hand crept slowly down his bicep and over his chest.

“How many crunches have you _done_ since college to look like this?”

A wave of relief washed through Matt and sent all his nerves singing. The incredulity in Foggy’s voice was suddenly the funniest thing he had ever heard in his life. Matt grinned, and he knew it probably looked as stupidly happy as it felt on his face.

“Foggy, we have had… _So much_ _sex_ ,” he snorted between bouts of laughter. “You already knew I looked like this.”

There came a light shove to his shoulder, and Foggy’s voice took on an affronted tone.

“Yeah, but that was Devil-you, not you-you! For all I knew, he was always that ripped! I knew you back when you were a gangly, super-adorable twig who thought he had to deserve his calories!”

Matt remembered that time. Eating only what he needed to, to survive. Never indulging. The worried tinge to Foggy’s voice whenever Matt declined an offer of dessert or shared leftovers. The way all his taste buds lit up the first time he accepted one of the homemade cookies from Foggy’s care packages. How strangely easy it was after that, to say yes, yes, yes instead of no, no, no even with a rough voice in the back of his head telling him he was going soft.

“I guess you could probably blame Stick for that too,” he admitted.

“Trust me,” said Foggy darkly. “I will.”

Matt laughed, shook his head, leaned in close.

“You’re brilliant, you know.”

Foggy matched him, until there was barely any space between them.

“Oh, I do. And now that that’s all over,” he said in a voice that was barely a whisper, the heat of his breath hitting Matt’s lips like the softest, most delicate butterfly kiss, “I think I’d like to get back to the part where you’ve been in love with me this whole time.”

“Yeah,” Matt agreed mindlessly, leaning closer still. “Yeah, me— me too.”

And then they were kissing, again, finally. It was like their first kiss all over again – unsure, but so, so eager. Matt didn’t want to waste a second of it. Because it was Foggy knowing, knowing everything, and still choosing Matt. It was everything he’d ever wanted.

Unfortunately, that didn’t mean he had lost the need to breathe. Eventually, he did have to stop kissing Foggy. And without that lovely distraction, Foggy’s mind was free to turn to other things.

“Oh no. What are we gonna tell Karen?” Foggy whined, slumping back against the couch with a creak of springs.

Explaining himself to one person was enough. Matt was absolutely not ready to have the same conversation all over again with Karen.

“Karen? Why would we need to tell Karen? I, I mean,” he stammered hurriedly, “it’s called a secret identity for a reason, Fogs—”

“Not _that_ ,” Foggy replied. “Although you really need to tell her that too. I meant about us. You know. Being… A thing. I mean, come on, Mr. I-Can-Smell-Your-Heartbeat-And-Hear-Your-Brainwaves, there is literally no way you didn’t already know Karen was into you.”

Oh. _Oh_. That.

“I had, I had an inkling, yeah,” Matt admitted sheepishly. “But it’s just a crush. Really.”

“With you, buddy, it’s never just a crush. Trust me,” retorted Foggy dryly.

“Know that from experience, do you?” asked Matt, because he just couldn’t help himself.

The comment earned him another kiss from Foggy, so it really wasn’t much encouragement to curb his attitude.


End file.
